


Bluebird

by lvckyphan



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Depression, Fanfiction, Fluff, Gay, Heartbreak, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Love, M/M, Mental Instability, Phan Angst, Phan Fluff, Sad, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 12:00:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 23
Words: 181,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9234194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lvckyphan/pseuds/lvckyphan
Summary: An unlikely tale of odd affection and baffling fondness between a pair of outcasts in a ramshackle orphanage comes to be plagued by tragedy when they move away to the green idleness of Scotland. Six years scuttle by, and all that was promised to remain simple is replaced by the ugly misfortune of dirty secrets, traumatic yesterdays and Phil Lester’s forbidden feelings for Dan Howell.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> It’s taken me over a year to write this. It’s genuinely everything to me—my heart and soul—and I’ve learnt so much creating it, both about who I am and the world around me. I can only hope you find the same emotion in it as I did. Thank you to those of you who believed in my writing, even before I did myself. This exists because of you and, had you not been there, I’d probably have given up a long time before the end.
> 
> **Playlist/Soundtrack: Sigur Rós - Valtari**

**I**

1998

By the time Phil Lester arrived at the orphanage, it was midnight. The sky was a tangle of silver strings, all moonlit and dismal across the inky darkness. Rain had begun to cascade down onto London, water slanting into all the crevices of the metropolis. It was the first breaths of September and the rebirth of winter was prominent in the cooling air. Frost was crusting into the corners of everything, it seemed, finding its place where it wasn’t wanted.

The cab had slowed to a halt outside a crestfallen building. Between the shimmers of reflection from the headlights, Phil made out a grey face, implanted with filmy windows and a small entrance. It was tragically drab behind the obfuscated glass, and Phil felt a tightening in his gut as he stared between the flecks of rainwater.

Everything was slow, lethargic. London was flourishing on a grand scale (Phil had heard the stories of its flair back home) but this street was its own world of bleak indifference. 

His uncle made no comment as he helped him from the car. There was probably a reason for it, but Phil was having trouble focusing on anything but the daunting building before him. The way it soared above the clouds was almost mocking and it amazed him that his knees didn’t buckle when he stepped out onto the pavement, dragging along a suitcase that accompanied his striped backpack.

“Come on then, Bud,” his uncle eventually spoke, palm flattening out against the square of Phil's shoulders. “And you too, Martyn, I’m on a schedule. Straight up to Manchester for me now.”

“Really?” Phil chirped, voice angling upwards with fascination.

“Hhm. Wish I could take you,” he ruffled Phil’s hair, disarraying the black strands between his fingers, as if the breeze wasn’t doing a good enough job.

“Wish I could come,” Phil mumbled back, deadpanned. He kicked at a stone and watched it skip across the empty pavement as the wind hissed.

“It’d be much better when it gets boring, if you were there,” his uncle responded, then shifted his attention promptly to Phil’s brother clattering his own luggage up over the curb. “Martyn, please hurry.”

Martyn had found every opportunity to ignore their uncle’s remarks on the journey, and it didn’t seem he was giving that up now as he walked straight past them, eyes downcast. Phil didn’t take it to heart, for he knew his brother was better left alone when like this, so resentful and acrimonious.

Not another word was spoken out on the street. Phil followed his brother through tumbledown doors and into a picturesque reception. The lighting was weak and a feeble silence clung to the air, magnifying the volume of their stride against the panelled floor. It made their entrance almost disruptive, tearing chunks from the stillness.

At the desk, an elderly woman sat, grey hair fastened lazily away behind her ears. There was a book in her hands, opened flat on the wood. 

“Evening,” she greeted, upon peering up. Her voice was gravelly ragged with age. “You must be the Lesters. Been waiting for you.”

“Sorry,” their uncle apologised, punctual. “Was a bit of traffic up near Westminster.”

“Not a problem. That’s inner London for you, sir.”

“Yeah, the cabbie mentioned.”

Phil struggled to concentrate on anything but the craggy pattern of Martyn’s breathing as the woman flitted through a book of call logs.

“I’m sure we won’t be needing you, but I’ll need to take your number. Vital precautions, I’m afraid.”

“No, of course,” their uncle agreed, inevitably easy, before reading his phone number aloud. After a stifling beat of silence, in which Phil was certain he heard the floorboards above his head creak, she shut the book and spoke again.

“So, we’ve got Phil and Martyn?”

“Certainly have. This is Phil,” The hand enclosed onto his shoulder again, then shifted. “And this is Martyn. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble—they’re lovely lads, these pair.”

“It seems so. I’m Mrs Abbott, and I do the night shifts. You’ll see a lot more of the place tomorrow, but I think it’s best we get you settled in for the night, eh?”

 _Mrs Abbott_. Phil tried to anchor her name in place in his mind, but his thoughts were like waves lurching against the shore.

“Right, I really should be going,” their uncle declared. His left arm found Phil’s side, his right Martyn’s, and despite the manifest struggle, he pulled them against his chest. They remained motionless for a moment and Phil counted his uncle’s intakes of breath, the steady uplift of his chest. He reached three and then they stepped back in synch.

“I’ll miss you both so much.”

The words were enough. They’d said goodbye back home before the journey had even started and although it seemed pointless at the time, it was suddenly everything to Phil. More important than breathing, somehow. Despite their short time together, his uncle meant so much to him. He made him laugh until he cried, taught him how to draw and write stories.

His uncle zipped his jacket up tight to his chin and squared his shoulders.

“I’ll see you soon,” Phil’s voice fluttered up into the stiff atmosphere. He was intent on saying something else, something much more, something that would remain as their time apart passed, but Martyn’s fingers were already tugging on his sleeve and pulling him away from the reception. The door shut softly on their turned backs, indicating that he had already gone.

Mrs Abbott led them up a rickety staircase that groaned underneath the weight of their shoes and luggage. When they reached the top, a hallway was spread out before them, home to a sequence of doors. There was a slight rustling in one of the rooms, but it quickly died down. Phil didn’t know why, but he felt he had to take care on which boards to stand on, in fear of receiving any unwanted sounds. Mrs Abbott didn’t seem to mind however, clicking carelessly on her heels across the floor.

Their room was one at the very end, door peculiarly positioned a third of the way through the wood. Its hinges hissed, afflicting with the stillness of the night when it was impelled open. Inside, there was a row of beds enclosed against two walls and a gaping window so misplaced it was ludicrous.

Phil couldn’t miss the indication of disquietude that lay thickly in the air.

Mrs Abbott was already drawing back bedsheets on a four-post when Phil focused his eyes back on her. In her feeble framework, she helped the boys move their luggage to safety under the beds for the night.

Phil perused the room in its totality. Legs covered by fabric pyjamas were poked out of the sheets, hands with thin fingers and twitching toes. He’d never felt so incongruous in all his life.

“Come on, love, in you get,” Mrs Abbot spoke compassionately, patting the mattress down. She eyed his attire and said, “Don’t you worry about pyjamas for tonight. Take your shoes and jacket off, though. Get comfortable.”

Phil took a seat in order to untie his laces and remove his outerwear. He pushed his shoes underneath the bed’s slats and hung his coat from the soft-wood structure. He shambled beneath the sheets, rustling like a floor of forest residue. Everything was fresh and smelt of an aromatic washing powder. It was so strong, it was almost sickening.

Since Martyn had chosen the farthest bed, Phil was left with the one cramped beside a stranger, whom had been drawn like a sketch with the shavings crafted into a question mark.

It was a boy, face mushed into the pillow, eyes closed, mouth open. His brown hair was all tangled, mismatched locks on his head. His cotton-clad arm was slung out of the sheets.

 _They called them strangers for a reason_ , Phil thought.

As though he was doing something wrong, he wheeled all his drowsy heaviness back over so that he was facing Mrs Abbott, who was crouched down over Martyn’s bed. 

“We’ll give you a room with the older boys soon, Martyn. This is only temporary,” she said. “For your brother’s benefit.”

And, _God_ , Phil felt like such a burden. The last thing he wanted was to weigh down Martyn’s already heavy shoulders. He couldn’t endure the idea of being a strain on anybody’s head, in particular his brother, whom was tormented without the responsibility of his younger sibling.

After all, Phil wasn’t a baby. He didn’t need an onlooker, a conscious bystander. He could sleep on his own, of course he could. He didn’t really need that promise of security, although he would quite have liked it.

Mrs Abbott was suddenly disappearing behind an eiderdown of darkness and a closing door.

“You know he won’t really miss us, don’t you? He couldn’t get away quick enough,” Martyn’s voice spilled in over the silence that had blanketed itself around Phil’s ears. It made a pact to return.

Phil knew who he was referring to and, for a while, he didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But he could feel Martyn’s eyes stuck on his face, waiting, and so eventually he conjured up, “He will miss us. He’s a good person, Martyn.”

“What do you know? You’re eleven. I’ve seen the way he acts when you aren’t looking, the way he tries to distance himself from us,” Martyn bit back. “I’m glad to be rid of him.”

“You want to be here?” Phil couldn’t fathom the idea of anybody willingly accepting this place as anything but a building with walls and floors and a bit of a convoluted past. The curtains taped across the window faltered in the midnight air.

“Of course I don’t want to be here. But I don’t have a choice, and it’s sure better than being with him.”

“You’re just jealous. He never bothered with you and—”

“I’m not jealous of anybody. You’ve got it all wrong. You think he likes you,” Martyn said, tone intolerant. “He doesn’t. He hates you almost as much as he hates me.”

Phil hauled the bedsheets hastily up to his chin at that. His blue eyes were stinging fiercely and he tightened his fingers so strong around the material, he thought his bones might break. His uncle liked him. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Martyn was just trying to hurt him, like he always seemed to do when the world turned in the opposite direction to the way he desired. Everything would be fine.

“He’s coming back,” Phil murmured, like his only intention was to convince himself. Martyn had clouded the certainty in his mind with a thick, foggy doubt. Like black smoke, it was choking the life out of his confidence.

“He isn’t. That’s not how this whole thing works, Phil. You’ll never see him again.”

Martyn turned away, determining the end of the conversation. There was a place in the bed in which he eventually settled comfortably and Phil rested conscious long enough to watch his chest slowly fall in a steady slumber beneath the sheets.

It was cold in the little room, so cold. Shadows were scattered up across the walls in the translucent shine, illustrating the work of Phil’s imagination. The entwined strings of lustre were unsettling, to say the least.

Martyn’s words had dug their fingers into Phil’s skin deep enough to draw blood, stale and crimson. _You’ll never see him again._

The moderately troubled child told himself he would and the word played like a repetition of hope in his head. Positivity. Optimism. Strong silhouettes of long fingers cast upon the wall and Phil buried his head so far into the linen, he fell to sleep believing the night was his friend.


	2. II

**II**

When Phil awoke, everything was significantly warmer. Sunlight filtered in from outside, crooked interruptions of morning sheen that disrupted his peace. He lifted his small hands up to his face and rubbed the obscure clouding from his eyes. It felt easier to breathe in his first glimpses of a new day. 

“Hello.”

It was a voice. Small but defiant, not yet amicable but strangely inviting.

Phil flopped against a great lump atop of the sheets as he rolled over on the mattress. He followed a pattern of curves and corners upwards and identified a boy in a long shirt, the sleeping boy from the bed beside his last night.

Phil propped himself up on his elbows, trying to decipher a reason for this stranger to be sitting there. Right there. The boy smelt of a sugary sweetness, like pancakes drizzled in golden syrup. He was mellow in the soft glow of light.

“Um, hi?” The intended friendliness was vague behind the scepticism and uncertainty in Phil’s voice. The greeting was more of a question.

The boy was staring at him as though he’d just crash-landed into his back garden and appeared out of a broken spaceship, asking for a map. It was a little off-putting but not enough to pile bricks up high in defence around himself.

“Who are you?”

“Phil. Phil Lester. I’m staying here for a bit,” Phil replied. He’d fallen back against his pillow and was stringing up the smudges of hazel in the boy’s eyes like a dot-to-dot puzzle. The bursts of discolouration reminded him of autumn, a bed of brittle leaves, auburn branches and orange skies.

“For a bit? Nobody stays for a bit, I’m afraid, mate. Did you sneak in through the window last night? Why are you wearing your clothes? Do you want me to hide you?” Travelling through the sentence, the boy’s voice dropped an octave lower.

“No, I didn’t sneak in. And you don’t have to hide me. My uncle dropped my brother and I off last night. These clothes are just—Well, I didn’t have time to change when I arrived. I’m not an intruder, I’m not bad.”

The boy bit his lip, brooding. Then, just like that, he was holding his hand directly above Phil’s face and extending a finger.

“Pinky promise?”

Phil found his smallest finger, linked them together and nodded. “I promise,” he echoed, unsure.

That was evidently enough for the boy, when he reached down from the bed and retrieved a tray. On it, there was a small cereal box, an empty bowl, a spoon, buttered toast and a mug filled with tea.

“I got this for you this morning. It’s eleven already, so you missed breakfast,” he said and slid the tray over to Phil, mumbling a small, “Here.”

Phil stared down at the collected food and felt himself begin to smile. In his chest, there was an overflow of intensity, and it made him feel like he was sitting before a fireplace. As if the gesture had warmed his heart, or something. The flames licked and danced in flattery and gratitude.

Phil sat up properly in the little bed, returning the consideration. “Thanks.”

“I couldn’t get you milk. They’d have probably noticed if I dragged a carton up here with me, so I hope you like it dry. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Phil dismissed with a rise of his shoulders, voice easy. His next thought catapulted into him and shattered his nonchalance into a thousand tiny pieces. “Oh, am I not allowed food up here? Maybe I should take it down—”

“No, don’t be stupid. You won’t get in trouble. I’m the one that did it, after all.”

Phil wasn’t sure. He was so observant of his behaviour, trained onto the way his feet moved and his breath caught and he felt like a puppet in a theatre. He was set on doing everything right at this orphanage and even speaking of stepping a foot out of line tethered his stomach. It was just that this place was something new, fresh, and these people didn’t know him. He could be anything he wanted and he’d decided on the journey down that that would be a good thing.

“Come on, it’ll be fine. You have to eat something,” The boy pushed the tray and the plastic dug into Phil’s chest. He was visibly agitated and the boy sighed like he was giving in to a demanding baby at a store.

“I won’t let you get in trouble, Phil,” he said, and it sounded like a promise. Another one.

He kind-of had no choice then. Surrendering, he took bites from the corner of his toast and savoured the taste of the buttery bread until it was nothing but a few crumbs on the plate. Then, he cracked open the dry cereal, poured it into a bowl and took spoonfuls of it into his mouth. Of course, he’d had better, but the fact that this boy had thought of him despite the fact that they had nothing tying them together made everything seem that little bit better.

The tea was tepid when he sipped it from the mug. He glanced curiously over at Martyn’s bed, which was empty and made, the corners of the sheets tucked beneath the pillows.

“Is that your brother’s bed?” It felt like the boy was interrogating him, but not in the I-don’t-trust-you kind-of way. It was more genuine intrigue than suspicion now that it had been established Phil was supposed to be there.

“Yeah,” Phil answered. “Do you know where he is?”

“I saw some boy down at breakfast that I hadn’t before. He’s got black hair and is, like, really tall?”

“That’s him. Martyn,” Phil recognised.

“Hhm. You look alike a bit, I can tell you’re brothers,” There was a pause and then a, “I’m Dan. Dan Howell.”

 _Dan_. The way feeling flowed through Phil’s veins at the name was probably a sign for what was to come.

Phil nodded, showing he’d acknowledged the words, and his mind ambled in studying Dan’s features as he drank the tea. He was reasonably tall, similar height to Phil, but he didn’t look quite as old. Everything about him was just so soft, careful corners and pastel skin. Maybe he was ten. The possibility that Phil was finally older than somebody lifted his spirits right back up from where they’d fallen again.

Gleams shone across the furniture from outside, treading lightly along the beds and the paper-thin walls. Phil could make out the shape of it all in the morning shine, and the curtains that he’d watched blow freely apart were drawn neatly back in separation. Pushed into the corners were smudges of hope, and Phil wasn’t quite sure what that meant.

“So, have you brought any luggage?” Dan spoke again, right after Phil had finished his food and set his tray of stained crockery on the floor.

“Yeah, but I haven’t unpacked yet. Haven’t really had chance.”

“I could help you, if you like,” Dan said, and it was a reflection on his personality. It was enough for Phil to catch his breath and think _that was so nice_. There was a concoction of contemplation and generosity in his voice, almost as though he was yearning for Phil to accept his offer.

And suddenly Phil had crawled out of bed, taken his suitcase from under it and laid his belongings out across the sheets. 

“This is the only wardrobe not taken in here, so you and your brother will probably have to share it,” Dan enlightened, curling his little fingers around the wooden handles and looking in Phil’s direction. “I mean, you could ask for another room.”

The thought struck something like a match inside Phil, searing, and he was shaking his head forthwith.

“No, it’s fine. My brother’s getting a new room soon, I think.”

“How’d you know?”

“Mrs Abbott told him last night,” Phil was impressed he’d been able to remember the name of the grey-haired old lady. The night of arrival was a foggy mess in his head.

“Oh, Old Abbott,” Dan laughed, amused. His eyes were full, dimple indented in his cheek. The realisation of the light in his smile came slow after it had evanesced from his face.

“That’s not very nice,” Phil defended. “She was lovely.”

Dan smiled, easy. “I didn’t say she wasn’t, mate. It’s just what we all call her. We don’t see her often because she works the night shifts, when we’re all supposed to be asleep.”

“Supposed to?” The implication of the word made Phil’s throat tight.

Dan shrugged and looked into the gaping wardrobe of empty shelves and compartments. “Sometimes people stay up, when they should be asleep. Play dares and stuff.”

Phil didn’t respond. The backlash of Dan taking acknowledgment of him was already kicking in, and he was considering everything up until now to be the wrong decision.

“You’d probably like it. Can’t not really. One time, this guy called Harrison snuck chocolate up and hid it in his drawers. It was brilliant,” Dan reminisced with a happiness that glared like a beacon.

“Didn’t the chocolate melt?” Phil wondered. He was probably focusing on the wrong part, but he wanted to see Dan’s smile for a little while longer, dimple and all. _That was weird, wasn’t it?_

“Yeah. Everywhere. All up the inside of the drawer,” Dan’s laugh was sharp, sudden, cutting off shortly. But he had the kind of laugh that remained thick in the air and it nestled itself deep underneath Phil’s skin. 

“Did you get caught?”

“Nah. He made us clean it and stuff,” Dan’s humour died like the flick of a switch. He pressed his lips into a thin line, eyes downcast and muttered, “He’s kind-of the boss really, Harrison. And a couple others.”

 _The boss. Harrison_. Again, Phil tried to repeat the name in his head like he’d done with Mrs Abbott until he was sure he wasn’t going to forget it. For some reason, he felt it’d be important. Maybe it had something to do with the way Dan had said it.

“So, you have a whole wardrobe to yourself then,” Dan declared, seemingly at ease again. “Where do you want everything to go?”

“Well, I think shirts should be hung up. Are there any coat hangers in there?”

They moved at a prolonged pace. Phil passed Dan his clothes to hang up or slip along the wooden surfaces, and it was a continual process. Phil couldn’t help but feel like it was all a little unnecessary, since his uncle would be coming back for him in no more than a few days. Possibly a week or two, at most.

Still, they worked as a pair for the first time, as the morning sun faded to an early afternoon flare, light straining in across the shrivels of the bedsheets.

It was around one when Dan broke the stilled air.

“You’ll like it here, Phil. It’s good to you if you’re good to it. And you seem, you know, good. A good person.”

Phil had quite quickly begun to realise that half of what Dan said didn’t make any sense. Nevertheless, he responded with a swift nod of his head.

“Oh, this is cool,” Dan cast his eyes to a red cap on the bedside table and reached for it. He tucked it onto his head and hallowed his cheeks in a pose. Phil chewed down into his lip to stifle a laugh that was eagerly rising up his throat at the boy’s expression.

“Give it back,” he murmured, meek, gentle in taking it from Dan’s hair. The umber strands had immediately raised in the wake of the fabric and he used his palms to flatten them back down.

“Is it yours?”

Phil nodded. His fingers were firmly clutched around the edges.

“Don’t worry, I won’t take it,” Dan sat down on the bed, eyes blinding and glittery. He made Phil think of art, creativity, sprinkles of colour here, there and everywhere. “It’s a cool cap, though. Where’d you get—”

There was a peevish knock at the door and not a beat of silence before it was opening. In the hasty moments before the entrance, Phil expected another scrawny boy, but was proven wrong when a young woman proceeded through into the room. Her blonde hair was drawn back tightly from her head, cheeks suffused a soft pink. She was clad in a plain blouse, tailored trousers and high heels. She appeared rather formal.

“Dan,” she remarked, surprisingly grave. “What are you doing up here?”

“Sorry, Miss,” Dan stood from the bed, markedly rushed. “I was just helping Phil out with his stuff. He’s new and needed some help.”

“Well, thank you for helping him,” she paused, so that it was obvious there was more to say. She seemed like the kind-of person who always had more to say. “But you should really have been helping to clear breakfast away downstairs. It isn’t your place up here.”

“Of course. Sorry.”

“Right,” she punctually nodded and broke into a stride across the room. It was then that Phil noticed the tray on the floor, in clear view between the beds, and he felt the blood swim behind his ears. Dan seemed to notice at that same second too and Phil watched his foot come and slide the tray beneath the bed. His heart sprung and threw itself against his rib cage.

“Dan, I do need to talk to you about something but not right now. I’ll find you before dinner,” The woman informed him, detached entirely from their silent conversation. “Anyway, most of the boys are out playing football. Why don’t you join them so I can talk to Phil?”

Dan gave a lasting exhale through his nose. It was as though he genuinely couldn’t think of a more outrageous idea, but he eventually gathered his wits and left the room with an audible fasten of the door. A string of presence was left in his wake.

 _No, no,_ Phil thought. _Come back. The tray._

The woman spun on her structured heel. “Phil Lester. What a pleasure it is to finally meet you, love.”

Phil fiddled with the fray on his jumper. He felt like his head was riddled with ants, like his thoughts were congested with insects. He responded hesitantly with a polite, “You, too,” like a _complete_ idiot.

She laughed at that and tucked some stray hair behind her ear. “I see Dan’s helped you tidy your things away. That’s good. I’ve spoken to your brother, Martyn, already when he came down for breakfast. I suppose you haven’t eaten yet, have you?”

“No, Miss,” Phil shook his head, courteous. He really didn’t like how Dan had left him with this, with the blatant lie stuck the walls and the windows, splattered up along the plaster and the glass.

“Well get changed then, love, and head downstairs. Lunch will be ready soon,” As quick as she turned, she halted and held her hand up in the air like she’d remembered something. “I’m Miss Leer. You’ll be seeing me around a lot. You and your brother seem like no trouble, but I’ve asked him to notify you of the rules we have here later.”

“Okay, Miss.”

Miss Leer gave a smile at his easy acceptance, approving.

“Good, good. Off you pop then, and get dressed. You’ve missed enough of today already!”

><

Phil dressed into fresh array in the nearest bathroom after brushing his teeth and washing his face. He had a thing about privacy, always had done, and although he would probably have to get used to dressing in front of the other boys, he was satisfied with the bolted bathroom door for now.

He’d left the tray under the bed because he didn’t know what else to do. Dan would probably have an idea (he seemed like one of those people who always had an answer for everything, in that beneficial way) and so he knew he had to find him. He just didn’t want to get lost down a winding path of difficulty, of lies and fabrication. There was something particularly unnerving about that and about Miss Leer.

Once Phil was fixed in a beige-fabricated shirt and trousers, he headed down the rickety staircase and out into reception. Miss Leer was hanging over the desk in a conversation muffled by distance and she turned her head to look at him when he entered.

“Ah, Phil,” she addressed. “I’m afraid lunch isn’t quite ready just yet. Head outside though, if you want. I know you’ve already met Dan, which is good, so why don’t you look for him and maybe even some others? Relationships are strong around here, you’ll soon realise. We all pull together to help one another out.”

Phil liked the sound of that. He really, really did. He figured he’d look for both Martyn and Dan, since he’d have trouble in finding anyone else.

The orphanage was a string of windy corridors and painted walls. Drawn pictures and childlike artwork were pinned up in admiration and it made Phil’s fingertips tingle. Children scuttled past him as he found his way, some too young to let go of hands and some too old to even glance down at him. 

Outside, everything was unexpectedly warm and virescent, washed with tinctures of brown. It was all arid in patterns of unexpected sunlight. All evidence of the miserable evening before had been forgotten, caught only in the air, which still smelt like there was a storm on the horizon. When Phil looked up at the sky, it was a sea of grey clouds, and he supposed he should probably make the most of the clement weather.

Goalposts were stable in various locations, Phil noticed, upon crossing the field. Surrounding each were small gatherings of boys, diverse heights, wrangling and grappling for a muddy ball.

Dan’s face was a lighthouse to a lost sailor. Relief crashed like tidal waves against Phil’s skin, rushing insistently.

The little brown-haired boy was distinctly one of the youngest on the nearest ‘pitch’ and Phil found him as he engaged in a frenzied battle for the ball. Streaks of mud were dashed up around the backs of his legs, battered trainers on his feet, wind curling fingers through his hair. Phil stood for a moment and watched him, and it was one of those moments in which you’re looking at something and your mind is running a race of _I’ll look away now_ but you know you won’t until your eyes burn from the intensity. Because Dan was a sequence of attraction and Phil had never been so enthralled in all his life.

Dan had fallen into a run over the field, foot guiding the ball. Somebody shouted his name but he continued to run until he was so near the goal, he could touch the post. When he kicked the ball, his toe just missed the correct side and it went soaring in another direction in a spill of colour on the warm day.

 _Never mind_ , Phil thought. It was just rotten luck. He’d never truly been good at football either, but Martyn had taught him one summer and introduced skills he could continually apply.

Suddenly, there was a rowdy cheer that erupted from the pitch and it sounded so much like thunder, Phil looked up at the clear sky. A blonde boy with big arms and legs and a pudgy stomach had three others hanging from him, mouths moving in an exaggerated chorus of praise. He’d quite obviously scored, the ball having taken a skilful path around Dan who was receiving a sequence of scowls and glares for his mistake. He booted the ball and Phil guessed it was out of irritation, since his fists were balled tight at his sides and his body was keeled in disappointment.

The ball had travelled down to Phil’s own feet and it rested against his shoe. He gave it a light kick.

“Hey! Hey, you!”

Phil looked over instinctively.

It was the boy who had scored, voice hard even from across the field. Confidence swam through his tone. “Pass the ball, kid!”

 _Kid?_ Phil drove his defensive response back down his throat and reached for the ball. He put power behind the kick and watched it fire across the pitch.

“Cheers!” Somebody else shouted, since the other boy had forgotten all his manners and that it was just polite to thank someone for doing something for you. He was already moving again across the enlargement of greenery, features mockingly jarring as he skidded around Dan’s lanky limbs. When the ball smacked against the inside of net and the boy gave a cry of victory, Phil’s heart ached for him.

“Well, would you look at that! Harrison scores yet again!”

 _Harrison._ Phil wasn’t bitter, but he came close to rolling his eyes at the name. Of course, this was Harrison. Tall, bulky, confident, rude. The way a little crowd gathered around him spoke volumes. He was obviously the most popular on the pitch. _He’s kind-of the boss really, Harrison_ , Dan’s words from earlier scoured Phil’s mind. So far, he was not keen on this boy and that was probably a treacherous path to be heading down. 

“Hey, Phil,” Dan had approached, glum.

“Hi,” Phil acknowledged his immediate presence. “That was, um—”

“Terrible? Yeah, I know. I’m not very good at football. I always try though, for some reason. I’ve been trying everyday since I arrived here,” he mumbled. Phil had a sudden curiosity for how long this child had been at the orphanage, for how long he had not been wanted. He didn’t ask the question on his mind.

“It wasn’t terrible,” Phil insisted, instead.

“Well, it wasn’t exactly good, was it? Can’t do anything right, me,” Dan took a sharp inhale of the crisp air. His cheeks were flushed from his exertion.

“You tried. If you keep practising, you’ll get better.”

Dan’s eyes found Phil’s and brown spilled across into blue. “You any good?” he inquired.

“I’m alright,” Phil downgraded his foremost potential. “I could show you how to play, if you like.”

“Yeah, okay. But some other day, alright? I’m tired out now and I’ve gotta get changed before lunch,” Dan broke into a plodding stride.

“I, um, I left the tray under the bed,” Phil abruptly declared. His voice was indistinct, lost in the rush of voices surrounding them. They were nothing really, just two children fighting for their voices in a tumultuous world, but standing beside Dan somehow made Phil feel as though he was being heard, being accounted for. He made him feel like the longest strand of grass, the deepest crevice on the moon’s surface.

“You did?” Dan remarked. Phil nodded in confirmation. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to deal with it then.”

“Sorry,” Phil apologised, in the spur of the moment.

“What are you sorry for? You haven’t done anything wrong, it was my idea,” Dan pacified his bubbling nerves. He closed the distance between them and bumped Phil’s shoulder with his own, smiling. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll think of something.”

Phil smiled, too. “Yeah, but how are you going to get it back?”

“It’s not your problem, mate. Just know it’ll all be fine.”

“No, I want to help,” Phil insisted. He dug his fingers deep into his palms as if the words hadn’t already stuttered up his throat.

“Okay. I mean, you can, if you want. I don’t want you to get into trouble though,” Dan said, to the slight uneasiness in Phil’s face.

“I won’t. Will I?”

“Suppose not. I’ll think of something. We just need to get it back into the kitchen.”

Phil nodded and put his trust in Dan Howell for the first time.

><

Lunch was ham and cheese sandwiches and fresh fruit cut into neat slices. Phil sat beside Dan at the end of a table, squashed into a wall. It was so busy, cramped full of watering mouths and empty stomachs. They spoke about cars and comics, their favourite superheroes and which one would take victory in the most unlikely battles. Neither of them said a word about the tray, but Phil kept his fingers crossed in his lap throughout.

Nearing on towards dinner, when Miss Leer found Dan and pulled him away for that ‘chat’, Phil searched around for Martyn. He was sitting outside on a brick wall with another boy, around the same age, a succession of greasy hair and pale skin. Martyn gave a look of acknowledgment when he saw him, one that seemed to erase the harsh words he’d said last night.

“Alright, bro?”

Phil approached, arms inept at his sides. “Hi. Miss Leer said I had to talk to you about the rules.”

“Rules?”

“Yeah. Like, around this place.”

“We haven’t got any rules around here, little man,” The other boy interposed. A broad accent coloured his tone. “Just do what you want, that’s my advice.”

Phil shot Martyn a look, almost as if to say _who’s this?_ and _why are you hanging out with him?_ He couldn’t help but wonder if Martyn would ask the same, should he meet Dan.

“Phil, this is Lent. A friend. Lent, this is Phil. You know Phil.”

Lent. There was something relatively eccentric and outlandish about him that clung to the fabric of his shirt and sloshed out against his skin. It was distinguishable, almost like his intention was for it to be observed.

“Sure. You’re this guy’s baby brother, eh? You’re quite sweet actually. How old are you?” Lent stretched down and pinched Phil’s cheek, squashing the skin between his angular fingers.

“I’m eleven,” Phil countered the urge to push the stranger’s hand from his face.

“Anyway, so—rules,” Martyn cleared his throat, sensing the shift to a vexatious atmosphere. “Basically, just behave yourself. Be polite and don’t stay up after hours. Breakfast is seven until ten—I did try to wake you this morning—lunch is two until four and dinner is six until nine.”

“You can have supper if you sneak something up to your room,” Lent grinned, and Martyn prodded him with his elbow. “Kidding, kidding. Don’t do that, buddy. It’s a bad idea.”

Phil’s swallowed the bile in his throat. _Oh, God._

“Phil’s never stepped out of place in his life, man,” Martyn said. “You won’t have a problem, bro. Just be yourself.”

Phil bit into his lip, brooding.

“Oh, and school starts on Monday.”

“School?” Phil had almost forgotten about that. “Oh. Where is it?”

“Small building near this one. It’s just for you younger kids, so Martyn and I have to catch the coach. Count yourself lucky,” Lent complained, kicking his feet out in some sort of protest. He smelt intensely of smoke, and it was suffocating.

“I don’t even have a uniform,” Phil indicated, trying to catch his breath around the vapoury boy.

“Old Abbott will sort you out with that and you’ll get it tomorrow, or something. They provide you with books and stationary and all that, too.”

“Okay,” Phil accepted, inevitably easy. It didn’t sound so bad. Maybe he’d talk to Dan about it later, if he remembered. He was hoping with all his might that they’d be in the same classes.

“How are you finding this place so far?” Lent said.

“It’s good. I’ve sorted my clothes out and stuff, and met some friends,” Phil shrugged, trivialising the importance of the topic. As always. Dan’s name was the only one inked into his mind at the surface of the word ‘friends.’

“Already?” Martyn looked startled.

“Yeah. Why? You have, too.”

“Suppose. But you’re a little less lovable than me, Phil,” Martyn teased.

“I’m not!” Phil defended and Lent chortled immoderately. It was a reflection on his state of mind.

“Yeah, you’re much cuter than Martyn,” Lent grinned, toothy. “What friends you made?”

“Just one. You probably wouldn’t know him,” Phil dismissed. It was strange, but something inside him insisted he didn’t tell Dan’s name. He was like a secret, like something Phil wanted to keep locked against his chest, away from everything and everyone else. Almost as if he were something precious, something that was just his to keep.

“I’ve been here for two years, kid. Try me.”

“Uh, Dan,” Phil gave in and said his name. “Daniel? Howell.”

“Oh, yep,” Lent popped. “Little Dan. Always been a bit of an outcast, him. Only ever really had one friend in this place, and he left a while back. It’s a shame really, he’s been here for a long time. You guys’ll probably get on good, he needs a friend as much as you do, I’m sure.”

 _Outcast? One friend?_ None of it made a bit of sense. Dan had given the impression of an almost extrovert, somebody approachable, good-hearted. He had the confidence to introduce himself to Phil, to show a little rebellion but only for a good cause. He’d brought a _stranger_ breakfast. Phil noticed that decency wasn’t really the key to popularity and that maybe it didn’t matter at all. He drew lines comparing Dan and Harrison in his mind.

Sooner or later, Phil left Martyn and Lent and the remainder of the day slipped by as the sun thinned behind a scape of drear. Remembering his brother’s words, Phil headed down for dinner around six, falling in between a crowd of other boys. His eyes searched the tables, amongst the lads filing in, but he couldn’t place Dan. He shrugged it off with usual optimism and took a plate to load with food. He gathered mash potato, sausages, peas and gravy then carried it all to a free spot at a table with a glass of water.

He sat alone, quietly, for a while. He cut through his sausages and ate mouthfuls of mash coated in the thick gravy. Somewhere between sips of cold water, he felt a presence beside him, and turned to see Dan. His mousy eyes were blotchy and red.

“Oh, hello,” Phil said. He put his glass down. “I wondered where you were.”

“I was just with Miss Leer,” he almost whispered. There was something weighted in his voice, and it bit with a vengeance at his words. His cheeks were damp with moisture under a square of lighting. _Was he crying?_

“Are you okay?”

Dan sniffed and squirmed atop of the hard seats, jabbing his thumb through a hole in his sleeve. “Fine,” he weakly attempted.

He _was_ crying.

“Are you sure? Has something happened?” Phil didn’t want to pressure him into anything, but how could he not be worried? Frantic? Dan was crying—God, he was crying. 

“No, it’s just—” he trembled on a crippling dejection. “It’s just, like, these people were interested in me. You know, fostering and all that. It wasn’t confirmed but I really thought that they were—Well, that they wanted me. This has happened before but not this far down the line. I was going to meet them on Tuesday and now it’s all be ruined.”

Phil’s insides were tight, tangled. A frown had fixated itself on his features. _It’s a shame really, he’s been here for a long time_. “I’m sorry, Dan,” Was all he managed to say, in lack of anything else.

Dan shook his head and gave a watery smile. “It’s not your fault, mate. I should probably be used to things going wrong by now. You know, I’m never what they want, and Miss Leer doesn’t help. She’s always giving me false hope. “It’s okay, Dan. Maybe next time.” I wish she’d just stop.”

“She’s only trying to help, I’m sure. She wants what’s best for you.”

“I suppose. I’m just sick of this place now and I wish I didn’t have to keep staying here. I really thought this was the one, that these people would finally get me out. They were supposed to want me, Phil. They were supposed to—”

A sudden, burning sound slashed through the words and Phil really wasn’t sure if it was a sob, or even a cry. In the slight chance that it was either, his fingers found Dan’s hands still on top of the table, and he curled them around the hot skin of his wrist. The pressure was light, so light ( _was he even touching him?_ ) but he could feel every thud of his pulse beneath his fingertips. It felt so real. Phil was suddenly aware that Dan existed and it was the best feeling in the world.

His eyes were hooded and wet when Phil found them, the brown running like the colours in a painting left out in the rain.

“Don’t worry,” Phil whispered, staring at him. “It’ll be okay. Somebody else is bound to want you, Dan. You’re awesome.”

Dan lifted his free hand and wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeves. He was a watery mess of disappointment, but he somehow managed to get out a hopeful, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Phil returned. “I think so, anyway.”

Dan chewed his lip and sniffed a couple more times. He muttered a sincere, “Thanks, Phil,” then inched his wrist from Phil’s touch. It was uncanny and inexplicably wrong that nobody wanted this boy. Why had he been here for so long? How had he survived as an outcast? Questions spluttered around Phil’s head like a running faucet as he stared at Dan and tried to solve pointless enigmas.

He hadn’t gotten any food, Phil realised, when he’d already finished his. Guilt ached through him, remembering how Dan had cared enough to get him breakfast that morning without needing to say a word. God, that felt like years ago. Too much had happened today.

“Are you going to eat?” Phil asked, softly.

“Miss Leer got me some sausage and mash from the canteen. Thanks, though,” Dan managed a smile as he rubbed the side of his nose. “What did you do all afternoon?”

“I spoke to Martyn about the rules here because Miss Leer told me to. And I met one of his new friends, Lent. He said he knew you.”

Dan frowned at that. “Lent? Lent, who?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t like he knew you personally, at least I don’t think it was but he definitely knew of you,” Phil paused and gave a smile. “So, what’s the deal? Are you famous around here or something? Have you really been here that long?"

“Quite long, yeah,” Dan’s crying had subsided, but there was still something pulling down his voice. “Long enough for people to know who I am, but not to get involved with me. Not a lot of people bother, you know.”

“How’d you mean?”

“A lot of people just say hello or smile or something like that. It’s not important really, I don’t even care. I like being on my own sometimes.”

“But not all the time,” Phil added, slowly.

“It can get lonely. And people are picky when it comes to friends. I’m a bit awkward, too. I have, like, long arms and legs and weird hair. Also, I can’t play football. That counts for a lot around here,” Dan joked through the solemnity to his words, as though the lack of skill was a genuine problem somewhere deep down.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that.”

“Huh?”

“I told you, I’m going to teach you how to play. Tomorrow, maybe?”

“You can do, but I bet it rains,” Dan said. “It’s horrible out tonight.”

Phil stole a glimpse out at the nearest window. Rain was scuttling down against the glass, rushes of water blearing together. It was a violent downpour that sounded deceivingly quiet under the rattle of noise from the cafeteria.

“Yeah,” Phil agreed, faint. “Horrible.”

><

Once dinner had ended and the remnants cleared away, everybody headed on upstairs, parting ways into correct rooms. They were granted thirty minutes to settle down for the night, and the atmosphere began to slowly still around open books and late-evening dimness.

Dan opened a book and started on the first page, Martyn read a comic, and Phil stared up at the ceiling. He wasn’t sure what to do himself but, after some time, he found his eyes drooping and his heart rate slowing.

He switched off his lamp, curled the bedsheets around himself, and rolled over. He could feel eyes on him, but was too tired to place who it was watching.

><

Phil woke in the middle of the night to Dan’s face spilling over his, the low light pooling in blotches around him. He was whispering Phil’s name and shaking his shoulders mildly, with a weak undercurrent of desperation.

Phil grunted, rubbing his eyes and mumbling something incoherent.

“Phil.”

“Dan, what is it?”

“You need to get up,” The demand was a small whisper. “Come on. We’re going on a mission.”

“A mission?” Phil echoed, matching his tone. He was still somewhat drowsy, but had sat himself upright.

“Yeah. We’re taking the tray back,” Dan held up the tray from beneath the bed, indicating, the crockery rocking atop of it. “Told you I’d think of something.”

Phil’s eyes were full in his head and the lasting haziness was beginning to fade from his veins, finally, at the mention of Dan’s (quite frankly _terrible_ ) plan.

“Dan, no. Are you crazy?” Phil couldn’t imagine himself sneaking around this place in the dead of night even if he tried. “This isn’t a good idea. What if we get caught?”

“Shh,” Dan hushed, lowering a hand through the air. “We won’t get caught, I promise. I never break a promise. Just get up.”

“Dan, I don’t—”

“You said you wanted to help,” Dan’s tone was almost accusing and he crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head to the side.

“I know, but—”

“I did it for you this morning,” Dan reminded, stung. “You’d really leave me to do this by myself?”

Guilt struck Phil’s veins at that and, on an exhale, he was sweeping silently out of the bed and pulling slippers onto his feet.

He wound up carrying the crockery carefully, whilst Dan managed the tray and a torch that shone a beneficial beam through the darkness. They inched their way through the bedroom with noted steadiness, though Phil still managed to nearly crash into Dan when he stopped abruptly halfway to the door.

“What’s wrong?”

Dan pointed the torch at a bed, waking sleepy flutters of dust. It was Harrison with his mouth open, snoring, arm stretched down to the floor. He took up almost the entire mattress with his build.

“That’s Harrison,” Dan quietly announced. “You saw him playing football today, right?”

“Yeah, I’m not a fan,” Phil said back and watched the stout boy with caution, as though he was going to wake.

“No?”

“No way. He looks like a bear.”

Dan covered his mouth with his arm to stifle a laugh and lead them out of the room. He was careful upon closing the door when they stepped out into the hallway, shutting the wood smoothly.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” he spoke on a turn of his heel. “We need to get the tray down into the canteen. I have a walkie talkie here for you.”

He handed Phil a little grey device with tight fingers. The thought of this inanimate object taking Dan’s place, of only being able to contact him through a toy made his heart plummet. Would they be separated? That was a surprisingly daunting thought. If there was anything worse than doing this, it was doing it alone.

“Don’t look so worried, I’m sure we won’t have to use them. It’s just in case we have to split up. Plus, they make this more fun,” Dan’s lips shaped upwards. “So, the canteen. We have to take the back door because they have cameras up in the front.”

“How do you know?” Phil gave him a look.

“I was looking around for them today. There’s a lot. The security system is in Miss Leer’s office.”

“So we have to take the back way? There’s no other option?”

“It’s either that, or we sneak into the office and disable everything.”

Phil shook his head promptly, torchlight illuminating his face. He knew the decision had already been made and, just like that, they were off. The pair found their way down the stairs sluggishly, wary on the old steps that risked giving their position away. When they reached the bottom, Dan halted and stuck his head out, eyes peering at the desk. He turned back to Phil and nodded, silently giving him the all clear.

The pair continued on, sneaking down the hallway, backs continually pressed against the walls. They turned a sudden corner towards a door and Dan gently placed the tray on the floor.

“What are you doing?”

“I have to pick the lock,” he briefed, low. He jingled a little piece of wire in the keyhole, curling it up and twisting it until there was a responsive click. Then, he reached back down for the tray and Phil followed him inside.

He felt so ashamed, disappointed in himself, stricken with guilt but he was fully aware that Dan had done this for him. In broad daylight. With everybody around. Returning the favour was impossibly important for Phil, yet he still found himself searching the highest corners in the inky darkness for security cameras.

“This is the right cupboard,” Dan said, fingers grazing a wooden ledge. He slipped the tray up and then turned back to Phil, who was still holding the crockery.

“Leave this here,” Dan commanded, taking them from Phil and leaving them on a counter top when he did nothing.

“Shouldn’t we at least, like, wash it first? Or put it away? It’s a bit obvious, Dan.”

“No, it’ll be fine. Everybody’s old who works here, they’ll never know,” Dan studied Phil for a moment, then gave a sigh so heavy it shuddered the atmosphere. “You worry too much, Philly. Trust me, okay?”

“Okay,” Phil rubbed his face, prisoner to Dan's sudden softness. “Okay. But can we please get back upstairs? I’m sweating so much here.”

“But I want to use these,” Dan held up his walkie talkie with hope flickering in his eyes under the dead light.

“Huh?”

Dan pressed a button. “Agent Lester?”

The words crackled up through Phil’s walkie talkie and his face broke out into a weightless smile. This was something only children would do—forget so easily about the danger at hand—and, despite the hesitance, it was a moment of normality.

Phil pressed his own button and said, in an adopted formality, “Agent Howell. What is it?”

“Mission directory: Arrive safely back to base. Over.”

“Certainly, Agent. Over.”

Dan’s face was embedded with an irrefutable grin on the journey back up the stairs. Even when a step grated beneath his foot and Phil’s body went rigid, it remained nestled on his face. It was eloquent of gratification and one of those smiles that made your jaw ache. One of those smiles that could be quite deceiving, in context.

When they shuffled through into the room, Phil’s fingers were still tight around his walkie talkie. Dan sat down on his bed and Phil pulled his sheets over his bitter limbs.

“See, it wasn’t that bad, was it?” Dan murmured, still giddy from his spate of happiness. “Told you I never break promises.”

Phil smiled and whispered Dan’s name into the silence, as the boy clicked off the torch. Darkness settled back into Phil’s eyes and he felt inexplicably safe, all at once. It was a rush so strong he gave a breath, like he’d been pulled underwater and had broken free, above the surface. His chest was a bubble of anguish.

“Yeah?”

“Your walkie talkie,” Phil said. “I still have it.”

“Don’t worry. You can keep it, if you want,” There was a noisy rustling from Dan’s bed that died as quick as it had begun. Phil couldn’t make him out as he squinted through the darkness. The world was an empty pitch of blandness without his smile.

“Are you sure?”

“Course. Keep it safe though,” Dan said back, equally as low. “Hide it under your pillow, it’s where I keep mine.”

Phil did just that, slipping the object under the linen and pushing it back against the headboard. There were a few minutes of silence that passed, in which Phil was fairly certain Dan had fallen asleep, until his voice fluttered up into the pits of nothingness.

“Night, Phil.”

There was a clap of thunder, a bleak reminder of the world outside. Phil shuddered under the harsh sound, thinking of how the sky seemed so terribly malice towards the world.

“Night, Dan.”


	3. III

**III**

Sunday was a sombre mess. The sky was a hard grey, bedecked with clouds that promised a woeful day. Phil woke at nearing seven and he scrambled around the room in a hurry to get ready for breakfast. Dan’s bed was vacant and made, neat. There was a series of unknown faces that still lay resting in beds, but Martyn was not one of them. Phil remembered a time when he probably would’ve waited for his younger brother to wake up.

Around fifteen minutes later, Phil met Dan downstairs in the canteen, and his smile was so bright it was blinding. Unlike last night, it wasn’t showing any signs of dwindling for anything and it was all for Phil. It spurted up in every direction and warmed his heart with a blanket thick enough to keep the cold out as he walked over, carrying a plate of eggs and bacon.

“Morning,” Dan spoke before Phil had even sat down.

“Good morning,” Phil’s smile made him feel almost inferior in comparison to Dan’s. He wasn’t about to get all poetic over a smile because it was a _smile_ , for God’s sake, but it was just one of those smiles. You know, _those_. The ones that made you giddy on your feet. The ones that hurt your eyes. The ones that were so fantastic and brilliant that not even _dazzling_ would be the right word.

It was just that—Dan was on fire in the most blissful way possible and how on earth do you describe _that?_

“I was getting worried,” he said, eyes watching every struggling slice of Phil’s knife. He’d never really gotten used to using one.

“Yeah?”

Dan swirled a spoon through his cereal and milk, still interested in Phil’s movements, and said, “Hhm. Thought you’d got lost. You sleep okay?”

“Good,” Phil put a small piece of food in his mouth and chewed slowly. “You?”

“Fine.”

“And, um,” Phil paused to swallow the food and run his next sentence over in his head. It was like deciding whether or not to throw the grenade, to pull the trigger. He knew it’d shatter the easy atmosphere like a pane of ratty glass, but he went for it anyway. “How are you feeling? After what happened with Miss Leer yesterday, you know.”

“Fine.”

Phil looked up at him. The boy had finally moved his eyes down to his cereal, soggy in the milk, and his smile was smaller, less intense. It was still there—Phil knew it would’ve taken a lot to destroy a smile so radiant—but it was beginning to fade, leaving fragments in its passing.

Phil didn’t want to compare Dan Howell’s smile to the sunset but he was going to.

“I’m always fine, Phil. You don’t have to ask,” Dan commented, soft.

“I do have to ask. Of course I do. You can’t go around pretending to not be sad all the time because—because that’s stupid. You’re allowed to be sad when things go wrong and you’re not supposed to hide it.”

“If that was the case, I’d always be sad,” Dan was the kind-of person who was allowed to feel sorry for himself because the pity came in such small doses. “Honestly, I’m fine. I know how to be.”

“No, you know how to hide it.”

Dan didn’t answer that. He probably didn’t know how.

Phil took a mouthful of egg and then another and another. Voices coursed around them, flowing in between rushes of violent rain.

“Do you think you could teach me how to play today?” Dan asked, like everything was okay. He was that child, it seemed. Not the one who ran from his problems, but the one who pretended they didn’t exist.

Phil finished the food in his mouth and replied, “I don’t know. Are we even allowed? It’s not very nice out.”

“Maybe. They usually let us, as long as we don’t get too muddy,” Dan silenced himself for a moment. “But would you?”

“Teach you? Yeah, of course. I mean, I’m not a professional or anything but I know a bit. I said I would and I don’t break promises either. Or words. I don’t break a word.”

Dan almost laughed and his eyes were so soft on Phil’s. He was a canvas of pretty, pastel shadings. “That’s fine, mate. You don’t need to be a professional. I don’t want to be one myself, I just want to know how to play. Like, how to shoot on target and how to pass without losing the ball.”

“Well, I can do that alright,” Phil said. “Sure, I can teach you.”

Dan thanked him and they finished the rest of their breakfasts quietly, with the occasional burst of metal scraping against the ceramic plates. Dan was far away, lost in his head, somewhere on another planet. Phil had a strong craving to join him, wherever he was. He knew the inside of his head could be lonely sometimes and he didn’t want Dan to be alone in his own.

It was a while before they spoke again. Upon arriving back upstairs, they saw the neatly folded set of uniform that was laid out on Phil’s bed, and Dan came from behind him with a light exhale. He was so close that Phil felt the breath on the back of his neck, forcing itself down his spine. He fought against a shiver that was exerting his body.

“Guess you’re going to school tomorrow,” Dan sighed. “That’s a shame, mate. It sucks.”

“At least you’ll have someone to talk to.”

“Are you saying I’ve got no friends?” Dan’s tone distorted in pain and his eyes fell hard across Phil’s face.

Phil felt all the words and confidence dissolve on his tongue like condensation on a window. _What did he say that for?_ He was such an idiot.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” he attempted, frantic. “I never meant it like that, I just—”

“I’m kidding,” Dan began to laugh, and the sound was so mild it was almost apologetic. Like he’d made a mistake, or something. Nevertheless, it untangled the ball of taut nerves in Phil’s stomach. “It’s cool. In fact, it’s brilliant. It’ll be great to have someone to talk to.”

“I hope I’m in your classes then,” Phil anticipated.

“Yeah. It’ll be no good otherwise.”

Phil spent a little while hanging his uniform up in his wardrobe until the clothes were immaculately ordered. All the while, Dan sat admiring Phil’s red cap. He’d taken such an intrigue to it, that eventually Phil said he could have it. He refused and put it down on the bed, like the incredibly interesting character that he was.

It wasn’t really surprising to see that there wasn’t anybody else outside when they finally headed into the rain. A blanket of fog prickled on the surface of the grass in the distance and droplets of water raced miles down their skin.

They found the nearest goalpost, shoes squelching in the mud, and Dan dropped his ball. 

“So,” he spoke immediately, voice crashing over the storm. “Where do we start?”

Phil would be lying if he said that Dan’s yearn to improve wasn’t fascinating. But a weight of responsibility was substantial on his chest, weighing him down like an anchor.

“Last summer when we had that hot spell, my brother taught me how to shoot,” Phil began with a fitting anecdote. “He said you have to push your foot against the side of the ball, not the front.”

Dan was watching earnestly. His eyes were narrow, his lips parted. A frown was skewed on his face. Moisture soaked his hair miserably and stuck it down to his forehead.

“Here. Watch,” Phil sensed he wasn’t entirely following as he pressed the ball into place, demonstrating the action with steadiness. “Just like this. Make sure your toes don’t touch the ball at all. That’s the key. Understand?”

Dan nodded, slow and hesitant.

“You probably shouldn’t look down at your feet either.”

“That’s stupid,” Dan remarked. “How am I supposed to know where I’m going?”

“Think of it like a rollercoaster. You don’t control it, it just takes you the path it’s supposed to go. Also, you don’t look down on a rollercoaster. That’s stupid. You trust it enough to let it lead you, yeah? Here, try it,” Phil lightly tapped the ball towards Dan’s feet. The wind was low, unthreatening, despite the torrential weather.

Dan licked the rainwater from his lips and chewed down on the skin until it paled, reluctant.

“Already?” he sounded apprehensive.

“Just have a shot,” Phil commanded and took a gaping step back.

“Okay,” The word dragged out, all winding and divaricated. He took a loud breath and then another and forced a kick into the ball. It soared into the left post, missing the open goal by a little more than a fraction.

He turned around and looked at Phil, as if saying _I told you so_ in the most deadpanned tone possible. 

Phil sent a crushing look back in Dan’s direction. “Try again,” he instructed, adamant.

With a reluctant huff and a brush of his rain-heavy fringe out of his eyes, Dan fetched the ball and dribbled it back ahead of the goal. This time, when he took a shot and missed it again, Phil noticed how he seemed to forget the advice he’d been given in the spur of the moment. He tried again and again but continued to fail, all the while kicking at the front of the ball and glancing down.

Phil could feel the way the air seemed to thin around Dan’s aura, an indication of his patience wearing down. Phil didn’t really know what to do, so he just kept letting him play, letting him miss the shots, until he finally cracked under the thunderous sky.

“For God’s sake!”

He shrieked in exasperation and kicked angrily at a chunk of mud. Lightning flashed, callous, then died like a burst bulb.

“I’m terrible at this and I’m getting no better—I can’t even score an open goal! I’m doing what you said, Phil, I am—I’m trying, I swear it—”

“Dan, don’t give up. You’re doing good—”

“ _Good_? There’s not even a bloody goalie and I can’t get it in the net!”

“Dan—”

“This was a stupid idea—I’m sorry, this was a really stupid idea. We’re wasting our time. Let’s just go get warm—” Dan shook his head. His voice trembled aggressively and he rumpled his damp shirt, scrunching it up to his face in some sort of protest.

“We aren’t going in, at least not until you score,” Phil waited for a reaction but the boy was stood completely still, his countenance covered by the material that rounded his collar. He didn’t move as water continued to flood from the heavens, sloshing around his feet and swallowing him up. The hard weather contrasted against his tanned complexion.

“Come here,” Phil recovered the ball from its place beside the post and put it down in direct line of the goal.

“Phil,” Dan almost pleaded. “Phil, I can’t—”

He was doing that thing, trying to look him dead in the eye. You know, that thing people did when they had something to say but they didn’t want to say it. There was a thick, ugly smudge of embarrassment on Dan’s face—metaphorically. Nothing about Dan was ugly, nothing at all.

“Shut up, I’m going to help you,” Phil said.

A bitter wind danced swirls through the air as Phil put his hands on Dan’s shoulders. Their heads were in such close proximity that it blurred everything together, made it all fuzzy. Phil couldn’t manage to form a coherent thought as the layers of the earth slid across one another. Everything was a mess, but a mess that made sense.

“It’s all pointless,” Dan muttered, voice still weighted but considerably softer.

“Just try again. Slower this time,” Phil’s words floated around the cup of Dan’s ear, where a strand of hair gently curled. “And I’ll help you if you go wrong.”

Dan was still for the proceeding moments, in which he silently grappled for desperate inhales.

It was only a matter of time before his eyes were training down to the ground, and Phil was winding his fingers up around his wet jaw.

“Don’t look down,” he nearly whispered. He was sure Dan hadn’t heard and he was sure it was nothing short of ridiculous how he couldn’t get his breath at this boy’s skin under his fingertips.

“Sorry,” Dan was fighting against a shiver, and Phil could feel it stutter on a current through his body and dissolve into his circulation. His shoulders shuddered as he gave into the harshness.

“It’s okay,” Phil said, small. “Just keep your eyes on the top corner, right up there. And take it steady.”

“Is this okay, Phil? How I’m kicking it?”

Phil looked down at Dan’s foot nearing the ball. His toe was just short of the grimy side. “Yeah, that’s right. Now use the inside of your foot to kick it and keep your eyes ahead.”

There was a moment of nothingness in which Dan held his breath, his chest heaved outwards. It was as though things had never been quieter, like everything in the world had died. Or never been alive at all. That made more sense.

Phil was aware of how Dan seemed to control his entire universe in that moment and he wanted to shake him, say “Breathe, because I can’t,” like his own existence depended on Dan’s. That wasn’t the case, obviously. _Obviously_. Nobody’s existence depended on another person. That was—That was just _stupid._

Dan suddenly huffed and ran his hands through his hair.

“What’s the matter?” Reality balanced itself in the soles of Phil’s shoes. There was a vigorous yearn inside him for Dan to score, even if just once.

“I look like an idiot.”

“No, you don’t. Of course you don’t. Practise makes perfect. Nobody’s ever got it first shot,” Phil’s hand still lay near Dan’s neck, grazing that dip at that top of his spine. 

He gave him a soft squeeze of reassurance, down through the fabric and into his skin. The pressure seemed to appease Dan’s stiffness.

When his shoulders relaxed and he stretched back into the palm on his spine, Phil felt as though he was holding Dan up, that if he were to move his hand, he’d fall. Everything would be ruined. And he’d never felt so responsible for anything in his life, as he was for this boy’s trust.

“Come on, Dan. Shoot.”

Without a moment of warning, the ball was crashing into the net. It happened in a fraction of a second, like a flare of lightning, but it most definitely happened.

“Yes! Phil—Phil, I did it!” Dan punched the air, bounding across the field. He jumped once, twice, excitement engraved on his face. He looked at Phil with wide eyes and a half-open mouth, staring at him as if to say _did you see that?_ He was like a firework that somebody had just let off, bursting into exhilarated explosions that smouldered with intensity.

“I knew you could, I told you—Didn’t I tell you?” Phil watched the boy, buoyant and merry and had the strangest impulse to hug him. The desire rested on his skin and made it itch and, for a fraction of a second, he wondered what it’d feel like. Soft. Cold. Wet. Safe. All right and all wrong, probably.

“Let me try again,” Dan had already gotten the ball and was readying himself when the words chorused in Phil’s ears.

For a second time, Dan held himself correctly, eyes ahead, foot coming back and colliding perfectly with the slippery surface. The ball darted into the bottom corner, quicker than light, and stopped against the back of the net.

It was brilliant. Maybe the best Phil had ever seen and he couldn’t help the way his eyes creased from his smile, threads of pride sewn into the corners of his lips. His next move was stupid. Phil knows it was but—Well, it was just one of those things. That spur of the moment thing.

He clambered over to Dan and wound his arms around him, laying his touch restlessly up around his shoulders. He was holding him tight, so tight, warm flush inching its way up his neck. And, yes, of course he probably shouldn’t have done it but he did. He did it.

And the worst part wasn’t even that he had done it, it was how he _held_ it. How he didn’t move when Dan breathed, sharp, right into his chest. It wasn’t that he couldn’t move either, it was that he didn't want to.

Dan was this mess of rainwater and life and Phil was holding him in the most jittery way possible, like when you drink a cup of tea and some spills onto your hand and you don’t want to drop it because it’d go everywhere but you can’t keep it still.

Dan was unresponsive for no longer than a moment. Just a moment, but it was the longest moment of Phil’s life as he stood there, all tangled up in this child’s limbs thinking _please do something._

And, eventually, he did. His arms tangled around Phil’s back and his damp hair tickled softly on his neck. He dipped his head low, with obvious reluctance, and squeezed. Phil’s heart did a backflip. And then a cartwheel.

“That was awesome—” Phil was the first to speak, struggling against his clogged throat and the triggered eruptions in his stomach. He loosened his grip and shuffled back, heels sliding through the mud. “I’m proud—I’m really proud, like—I just wanted you to know. Sorry.”

Dan grinned, “What’re you sorry for, you _dope_?”

“I don’t know,” Phil admitted. He couldn’t really remember why, or if there had even been a reason, but an apology seemed like the right response. Like he’d made a mistake, or something. Crossed a line he shouldn’t have crossed. He realised how paranoid this orphanage was making him.

“Well, then,” Dan said.

Phil liked him so much. So, so much. He was just so lovely, soft and mellow and pretty. Boys weren’t supposed to be pretty, but Dan was. He seemed to break all the rules. The storm was the closest it had been to the horizon and everything was dark, but Phil wasn’t scared. Not even a little.

“Do you think I should shoot again?” Dan asked, excited, glancing in the direction of the ball in the net. “I think I should. I want to see if I can—”

“Boys!” A voice bellowed beneath a convenient pound of thunder. The sky struck, electric, and Phil squinted in an attempt to make out the figure that was marching towards them. Rain fell heavy on his eyelashes, clouding his perception, but it wasn’t hard to tell the slogging contour was none other than Miss Leer.

“Oh, God,” Dan mumbled, under his breath.

“What’s the matter?” Phil frowned, rushed and confused. “We were not allowed out here?”

Dan bit his lip and shook his head culpably.

“Dan! You said we were, you said—”

“What in _God’s_ name do you two think you’re playing at?" Miss Leer demanded, enraged. She looked like a wilted flower. “Look at you both! Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take to get all that mud out of your clothes?” Silence. “Well? What have you got to say for yourselves?”

Phil looked at Dan. He was slowly drowning beneath the grey sky.

He took an inhale and began, “Miss, I’m—”

“Dan, I expected more from you. You’ve been here long enough to know the rules,” she snarled and looked to Phil, menacing. “And Phil, as for _you_ —”

“It wasn’t his fault, Miss,” Dan tried. “Honest, it wasn’t. It was my idea. I told him we were allowed outside, I told him—”

“That’s quite enough, thank you, Dan. I’ll be deciding whose fault it is and who shall be punished.”

“But, please, Miss—”

“Enough,” Miss Leer silenced him. Phil couldn’t manage a look in his direction, but could feel his eyes on the side his face.

“I’ve had enough of you talking back to me, Dan. Just because you’ve been here so long, does not mean you have anything more than anybody else. I make the rules around here, I say what goes. Would you have ever spoken to your mother that way?”

“Never had the chance,” Dan pushed the words into the atmosphere, sullen. Phil finally looked at him but didn’t find his eyes, in fear of intruding on something he wasn’t yet welcome to see.

Miss Leer didn’t seem to hear the response, Phil thought, as she clicked her tongue off the roof of her mouth and said, “So now you choose to be quiet, when I’ve asked you a question.”

Dan squished his trainer deep into a puddle of mud, ignoring her. Phil didn’t blame him, somehow. But he was still mad. _How could he not be?_ Dan intentionally put them at risk of what Phil feared most.

As the breeze picked up, a prickling harshness swept over the field. Dan pulled his sleeves far down over his palms, fiddling with the wet fabric. It was freezing and they should’ve brought their coats. _Why didn’t they at least bring their coats?_

“Right, get inside then. Now. I can’t have you both catching a cold for school tomorrow,” Miss Leer clicked her fingers, impatient and irritable. Phil had only taken a few steps forward before she grabbed his arm, red nails pushing lightly into the flesh.

“I left your uniform on your bed. I’d like you to try it out, please,” she ordered. Phil nodded, uncomfortable, and she released his arm begrudgingly. Dan’s stare was on him, he could feel its strength.

Phil began walking towards the building. It looked like a ball of fire and the storm shimmered around the edges of the shine.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dan bend down for the muddy football and Miss Leer give an almost cackle, like it was hysterical, and snatched it from him. “I don’t think so.”

“No, Miss, that’s not fair!” Dan protested loudly. “I’m sorry for breaking the rules, I am but—but I really, really need that! I’m learning how to play and—Just please, you can take anything else!”

“There you go again,” Miss Leer shook her head, churlish. “You just don’t learn, Dan. You never do. That’s why I’m taking this from you, so maybe you’ll start to listen to me. You can have it back at the end of the week—”

“The end of the _week_?”

“I think that’s very fair. Don’t look like that, it’s your own fault. The pair of you. You know the rules. I don’t want to see you playing any football until I say so, understood?”

“I can’t play at all? Not even with the others?” Dan’s face was a fissure of dejection. He looked like he was going to cry and Phil could already feel the tears. He couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him, too. He knew how badly he wanted to improve his skills and as much as he had broken the rules, it didn’t seem at all fair to take this away from him. He’d made a mistake, and he’d apologised. That was enough, or at least it should’ve been.

“No, you can’t,” Miss Leer pierced him with her glare. “Now, inside. Hurry up. You’re going to get sick.”

Dan breathed, utterly wretched, and Phil watched him as he walked across the grass.

“I hope you know you won’t be getting away with this either, Phil,” Miss Leer’s voice shocked him in its discordant state. “There will be consequences for you, too. This is not a very good start at all, is it?”

Phil couldn’t take his eyes from Dan, moving away in the direction of the entrance. He was trained to the way his shoulders hung limply and he hadn’t looked up from the muddy ground.

“No, Miss.”

><

Phil didn’t see Dan for a long time. He showered and dressed and ate lunch alone, completely fed up. The rain continued to pour down on his mood and he imagined himself sitting under a grey cloud.

Once he’d cleared away his very poor attempt at eating, he lay on his bed with a stomach no fuller than before. Levelled conversations nestled in the air, boys sprawled out around the room playing games and laughing too loud, controlled entirely by the weather. Martyn had disappeared downstairs with Lent at some point during the cold afternoon.

Dan appeared in the room around three and silently headed over to his bed, lightly treading across the floor. It was quite obvious he didn’t want to disrupt anybody or attract any attention when he pulled the covers up over his head. His hair was still slightly damp, Phil noticed but he was dressed differently, in shorts and a long-sleeved shirt. _Didn’t he own any short sleeves?_

“Dan,” Phil said his name, quiet. Nothing. He slipped from his bed and poked the boy’s side under the sheets. The lump shifted beneath the fabric. “Dan?”

His face creeped out from above the sheets, hair brushed into his face, brown eyes scintillating.

“Yeah?” he said, small and distant. “What is it?”

Phil frowned down at him. “Where have you been?”

“I don’t know. Hiding.”

“From what?”

“You,” Dan mumbled. He rolled onto his side and mushed his cheek against his palm. Phil took that as a signal to leave him be and he made it a step backwards before he was turning to the bed again. He scowled at Dan, irritable.

“What do you mean, you were hiding from me? What have I done wrong?” Phil had his arms crossed over his chest when Dan looked up at him.

“Nothing. You haven’t done anything, of course you haven’t. I just—I didn’t want to find you because—” Dan paused to steal a long breath. Everything was quiet. “I thought you were mad at me.”

Phil didn’t quite know what to say to that. The earlier bubble of irritation that had formed out on the field had begun to deflate, leaving just a stinging burn in the pit of his gut.

“I’m not,” Phil said. He’d sat down on the bed and was fiddling with the white linen because it was a distraction from Dan, who was now sitting upright against the headboard. “Well, I kind-of am. You didn’t tell me that we weren’t allowed out and stuff and that was a bit . . . annoying. But I guess it’s fine. It’s not that big of deal—These things happen. Don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah, but,” Dan’s eyes were like rings of fire, voice poisoned with hope and surprise. “But you’re not mad?”

Phil shrugged his shoulders again, not looking up from the sprawl of bedsheets in his lap. He looped his finger through a thread and pulled.

“I’m sorry for getting you into trouble, Phil. I know it was dumb, but I really thought we’d be okay. I shouldn’t have done it, no matter how much I wanted to play. I should’ve just waited until tomorrow and then we’d still be able to play and you’d still be my friend,” he rambled, unruly. “But I’ve ruined it and now we can’t play at all. I’m sorry.”

And the thing was, Phil wanted to be mad. He wasn’t, but he wanted to be. Maybe he just wanted to feel anger, for once in his life. He never got mad at anything. Of course, he always had that brief moment of rage but every cut bleeds, regardless of whether it hurts or not.

Besides, it wasn’t that. Phil knew it wasn’t that.

It was Dan. It was Dan and his everything and _when wasn’t it Dan lately?_ He was the centre of the universe, it seemed. This elaborate and wonderful person, made up of ends so loose and fraying it was impossible to define him. Phil wanted to run his fingers down over every bump in Dan’s spine and count the gaps because he wanted to find things that nobody else had had the chance to. Everything about him was pastel and delicate and Phil felt like he had to protect him at all costs.

Phil’s eyes followed a droplet of water from Dan’s hair, down to his knee, bare in the shorts. The warm skin soaked up the moisture and when Phil looked up, he was watching him.

 _God,_ Phil thought. _You’re really lovely, you._ Because Dan was just gorgeous, he was. But it wasn’t right. It wasn’t right. Boys weren’t pretty, boys weren’t gorgeous. Boys were boys. Boys could play football and boys didn’t cry. Dan was a boy and Phil was a boy and Phil wondered why he had to remind himself of that.

Still, he reached across through his head of coiled thoughts and defiantly brushed his fingers against Dan’s shoulder. “I’m still your friend. It’s okay,” he said, poignant. His tone was frangible.

“Yeah?” Dan hoped. “You promise?”

“Pinky promise,” Phil offered his pinky out and Dan wound it around his own. They shared a wholehearted smile, which seemed to merrily (as possible, given the circumstances) conclude that conversation.

Silence stilted in the air between them for a little while, as the rain spouted down onto the old bricked roof.

“Why is your hair still wet?” Phil punctured the quiet, eyeing Dan’s head of hair that was laden with dampness.

“It takes so long to dry, right?” Dan said and lifted his hands to his head, exasperated. “Imagine having this every time you shower. It’s so annoying, you’d never guess.”

“Why’d it take so long?” Phil reached forward and lightly touched Dan’s wet hair.

“I don’t know. It just always has done, even when I was a baby. I had a lot of hair when I was a baby,” he said. “It’s just so boring to sit there and dry it, so now I just leave it. It takes longer this way but at least I’m not wasting my life.”

Phil snorted at that and hugged his knees to his chest as he sat back on the bed. He thought for a moment whilst watching Dan and then said, “Why don’t you just use the hairdryer? I saw some when I showered earlier.”

“Hairdryers? They’re for _girls_ , Phil,” Dan fell into folds of laughter, like the remark had genuinely tickled him.

“They’re not,” Phil shook his head.

“Are, too. And I’m most certainly not a girl, Philly,” Dan poked his rib cheekily, light-hearted. Phil faked a deep scowl and a flinch away.

“If they were for girls, they wouldn’t be here,” he defended. “At an orphanage for boys.”

Dan just shrugged at that and said, “Whatever.” His smile remained still on his face, small but evident and his features were warm in place. Somewhere amongst the proceeding moments, he whispered, “I know it’s stupid to ask but—Do you know how long you’re staying?”

Phil looked at him and asked, “Staying? Here, you mean?”

Dan nodded in confirmation.

“Not sure, to be honest. I think my uncle should be coming back soon. Maybe even before we get the ball back.”

“What?” Dan’s eyes widened, extending to full circles in his head. “He’s coming back? To get you?”

“Yeah, of course he is.”

“Of course he is? You know that isn’t the normal thing to do, right?” Dan’s stare was perplexing. “Phil, this is an _orphanage_. When you come here, it’s to stay. Did your uncle tell you he was coming back?”

“No, but—” Phil couldn’t stop the uneasy laugh that stuttered out of his lips. “Well, he didn’t say he wasn’t. He just—He is, Dan. He’s coming back. He wouldn’t leave me in this place forever. That’s stupid. He loves me.”

“Sure he does, but it can be complicated,” Dan sat cross-legged, gaping at Phil warmly. “Sometimes grown-ups do things that they don’t want to explain. It doesn’t make them bad and it doesn’t mean they don’t love you, it just means we’re not old enough to understand it so they don’t tell us.”

That didn’t seem fair to Phil and it certainly didn’t seem right. His uncle wasn’t like other grown-ups; he wasn’t a bad guy and he wasn’t complicated. He loved Phil, he loved Martyn and he was coming back.

“Dan, you don’t understand. My uncle’s not like that. He’d never leave me in a place like this.”

“Hey, this place isn’t so bad. I’ve been here forever,” Dan muttered, scanning the peeling paper on the wall behind his bed. It was water-damaged and fading, most probably from old age. It was a fitting sight.

“Yeah, but that’s only because nobody wants you—” The moment Phil said the words, he was struck with a bang of regret that exploded sparks all across his skin, burning him. Dan’s face had fallen and his eyes had hardened like memorial statues of cement. 

He looked vulnerable and hurt and Phil wore his guilt like a coat, buttons fastened tight.

“Thanks,” Dan’s voice was jagged, craggy like the sharp side of a knife.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry,” Phil didn’t know where to look or put his hands as he sat on his feet and spurred out a seamless apology. He pushed his fingers into his knees and eyed Dan’s filter of expressions. 

He didn’t say anything for a long time and when he did, his voice was wounded. “It’s okay,” he forced out and it only made Phil feel even worse. It was like a man rowing a boat with two punctures and saying it wasn’t sinking. Of course it was. Dan was the man on the boat and Phil was the one who’d broken it and the sea was the silence between them. Waves crashed through the air, merciless.

“No, it isn’t. I’m sorry. People want you, Dan. Of course people want you, loads of people do—” Phil chugged the words out to avoid an interruption. “I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about you and I’m sorry. I say things like that sometimes, things I don’t mean. We all do. I’m sorry you’ve been here for so long and you’re lonely. I didn’t mean what I said, I swear I didn’t and I take it back. Pinky promise I do. People do want you, even if it doesn’t seem like it. People don’t want me sometimes. A lot of the time actually, but it’s just one of those things. I’m sorry—”

“Stop saying that,” Dan finally said, but it didn’t sound angry, not even annoyed. His tone said he’d found composure in all the rambling, somehow.

“I’m sorry,” Phil said again, smaller, and Dan sighed as his lips quirked upwards just slightly. He chewed down into his lip like he was trying to stop the involuntary reaction to the words. 

Then he shook his head and said, “It’s alright. I forgive you.”

“Yeah?”

“Course,” Dan said. “If you can forgive me, I can forgive you.”

“We’re doing a whole lot of forgiving today,” Phil noted, upon realisation.

Dan smiled at that. He had the most amazing smile, he really did. It was hard to find the words to describe it every time it appeared, brighter than the last. It was like those summertime sunsets, the ones that seemed to last forever. The ones that splattered orange and red and yellow all across the sky, igniting it and making it look like it was on fire.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Dan said. "Means we’re friends, it does.”

“Yeah, I suppose it does,” Phil didn’t say anything after that for a while and it was quiet until Dan rolled over onto his stomach and directed the conversation down a different path.

“So you say your uncle’s coming back?”

Phil didn’t want to show his uncertainty, so he gave a strong nod and plastered his face with a tiring kind-of confidence. “My uncle’s my best friend and he’s always been there for me. He loves me so much. He wouldn’t ever leave me.”

“Okay,” Dan’s voice was careful again. His eyes were unsure but it was observable that he didn’t want to push Phil. “That’s okay then. I’m sure he’s coming back.”

Phil forced a nod and a smile and tried to focus on anything but the unlikelihood of his uncle returning for him. But the storm was still wild outside and Dan smelt fresh of coconut shampoo and Phil found some comfort in it all.

“Hey, Danny!”

Somebody bounced on the bed’s springs and the frame shook underneath Phil’s body. When he turned, there was Harrison, taunting smirk twisting up his face.

He prodded Dan’s shoulder hard and Dan seemed to curl in on himself as he weakly muttered, “Go away, Harrison.”

“Hey, now. Come on. I just want to talk,” Harrison glanced at Phil. “Gonna tell me who your new _boyfriend_ is?”

“He’s not my boyfriend, Harrison. Gross. Go away,” Dan’s words were like thunder, and Phil heard them loud and clear in his ears. It’s not like he cared really, but there was something shocking about the disgust in his tone.

Dan gave Harrison’s shoulder a shove, but he wouldn’t budge. He didn’t seem like the kind-of guy to move under somebody else’s accord.

“Come on, Danny, just introduce me,” Harrison continued, still jabbing him. “What’s his name? Have you kissed him yet?”

“Shut your mouth,” Dan warned, alarmingly low.

“Woah—Calm down, little man,” Harrison sniggered at Dan’s sudden shift in demeanour, finding a hard humour in it all. “Tell me, Danny, don’t you feel guilty? You know, after _Sammy_ —”

“Shut up. Shut up right now,” Dan gritted his teeth so tight together that it seemed as though is jaw was trembling from the intensity. _Sammy?_

“What? Don’t play around now, you know exactly how you felt about him and exactly what you are.”

“No, stop it,” Dan’s words were a flimsy plea that were there and not there all in the space of a moment. His eyebrows were drawn down firmly, his face tense in a way that afflicted discomfort.

“Course you do,” Harrison smirked. “I haven’t got to spell it out, have I?”

There was a stifling beat of silence that stretched like an inflating ballon, threatening to burst, before Harrison pierced the air with a shrill and punitive, “ _Queer_.”

The word soaked under Phil’s skin and the uncertainty boiled there, dragging along a bitter odium. It seemed to slow everything down and the world came in lethargic snippets for a few extensive seconds. There was a sudden dryness to his mouth and a burning in his veins and nothing felt right, and that was it. Nothing about that word felt right. But Phil found it inexplicably wrong for a word he couldn’t define to turn his stomach the way it did.

“I’m not queer, I’m not like that,” Dan’s voice sounded like it felt to move through water. “Please, just leave me alone. Harrison, please. I’m not, I swear it.”

“Sure you’re not,” Harrison shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line to stifle laughs that erupted at Dan’s salient humiliation. “Listen, Danny, I believe you. Still, I want to know who your special friend is.”

_Special friend?_

“Phil,” Dan managed, and Phil wanted to die right there as Harrison turned, eyes empty ditches of green.

“What a lovely name,” he discreetly ridiculed him behind a compliment and when he extended a hand, Phil had no choice but to shake his pudgy fingers. “Nice to meet you, Phil. I’m Harrison.”

“Hello,” Phil tried. He’d already decided he hated this boy. There was just something about him, he thought, this cold aura that frosted everything over and numbed it bitter. He didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t even want to look at him, but he’d always been that kid who never spoke out about anything. It was probably a negative trait for the most part, but he was placid. Meek. He avoided conflict—and those people that were always behind it—as often as possible. As much as he hated Harrison, he didn’t have it in him to challenge him. He just wasn’t like that.

And Dan’s continual recoil from Harrison wasn’t reassuring in the slightest. He looked as though he was gong to burst. Into tears, most probably.

“Well, aren’t you a little cutie?” he taunted, because he was _so_ much older than Phil. He appeared like he was, but he wasn’t. He couldn’t have been much older if they were sharing the same room.

Dan shuddered on an inhale and said, “Harrison—”

But then Harrison turned to him, expression suddenly twisting up into a burst of threatening rage. “You need to learn to shut your mouth, kid. I do whatever the hell I want and you’re the last person I’d ever listen to, you _queer_.”

Again, there it was, an explosive lurch in Phil’s stomach that seared his gut. He felt so sick and there was a vile taste in the back of his throat that just wasn’t dissolving.

When Harrison turned back to Phil, his face was back to its ordinary, mocking expression. “So, what’s the deal? How long are you staying?”

“I’m not sure,” Phil was whispering, for whatever reason. Maybe he felt intimidated by this boy, and maybe Dan did too. Maybe. “Not long, I don’t think.”

“Cool,” The bed groaned in almost relief at the shift in mass when Harrison stood from it. He flattened the greasy, blonde mane on his head and forced a final upturn of his plump lips. “Nice. Have a lovely rest of your stay then, if we don’t speak again before you leave.”

Harrison sauntered off the scene with his head implausibly high, marching straight towards a collection of boys in the corner of the room. They sounded like a choir when they laughed, replacing enchantment with cruelty.

Phil looked at Dan, whose little fists were balled and lips pressed thin. Emotion was erupting behind his eyes and it was hellish to look at and so Phil refused him a second glance to find a place on his own bed. He pushed his head into his pillow and tried not to think of Dan or _queer_ or how the two seemed to be so curiously connected.


	4. IV

**IV**

Monday came in a soft glow of hope. Dan was already up when Phil awoke, rummaging through his draws, knelt on the floor.

Phil’s eyes struggled to adjust to the dim shine and overcoming the woolly cloud of sleep that circled him, but he found that Dan was shirtless, dressed only in black trousers and a pair of grey socks that slid on the wood. His hair ended messily at the bottom of his neck and his skin was a shade of a colour that didn’t exist, creamy and soft and delicately crafted. And Phil was a bit jealous of him for reasons he didn’t understand. He shrugged that off, such complexity being too much for the morning fog muddling his head.

The bones in Dan’s back moved when he stood up from the floor, white shirt in hand. He kept his back turned to Phil as he pulled it over his shoulders and began to clip the buttons up. 

It was then that they became startlingly obvious. The indents of dark purple that were spattered up his arms and his chest and his stomach and across every bump that pushed from under his skin. They almost seemed too deep and complex and permanent to be just bruises. Phil knew they— _it_ —was so much more than that. It was pain; a concealed torment and a voiceless struggle. It was an intermittent rush of not knowing when or why or how and Phil couldn’t understand how he got all that from a discreetly beaten boy. But Dan made him think, and that was really just it.

And then there were the jagged streaks of white, like little lightning bolts, marked in between the discolourations across his skin. These seemed much stronger, somehow more obvious against the contrast of his tan. Phil didn’t get long to look, but it was long enough to make him feel like he was going to cry.

When Dan turned, he closed his eyes. He tried to slow his breathing to keep up the lie of not having yet woken, but his heart was running a race that rocked his chest. He was screwing his eyes shut so hard that he saw phosphenes and thinking: _God, please don’t let him see me._

Because he felt like he’d done something wrong. Overstepped the mark, or something. He’d seen something he shouldn’t, regardless of whether it was intentional or not and that gave him a horrible feeling. These marks weren’t Phil’s to see and he tried so hard to forget them that his toes tingled.

Eventually, there was a loud clasp shut of the door and Phil risked the opening of an eye. Dan had left the room, taken his bag with him.

Yesterday afternoon, Phil had hung his uniform up in his wardrobe. Today, it took him less than ten minutes to slip into the uncomfortable clothing; the fabric made his skin itch and as he left the room himself, he had his hand dipped down his collar to scratch at his neck. He had his empty backpack bobbing on his shoulders and a weight he was sure wasn’t there when he went to bed the night before.

Dan wasn’t at breakfast. 

At least, Phil couldn’t see him. He ate quickly and silently, suffocated by an unforeseen loneliness. Once he’d finished the food on his plate and downed the tea in his mug, he headed out into the reception, which was abundantly overcrowded.

It was strained with fuzzy faces, spilling out in a way that resembled a mug too-full of coffee. Phil felt a bit lost, to tell the truth.

So it was probably luck that he found Dan just outside the building. He wasn’t really looking for him—it was one of those moments where everyone and everything blurs together and it’s kind-of impossible to look for anything in the mess—but when he did find him, he wasted no time in rushing over.

Dan was stood alongside Miss Leer, who had her hand firm on his shoulder. He noticed Phil the moment he arrived and pushed his face down to the floor, looking everywhere but up.

“Hi,” Phil whispered, to no acknowledgement. He continued to stare down at the busy clatter of shoes on the pavement and Phil wondered if he was ignoring him or if he just didn’t hear. Still, there was something different between them today. Phil didn’t know whether or not it was his fault, Dan’s fault, or even Harrison’s fault—but something was different. That much was obvious.

Miss Leer had a clipboard in her free hand, a swarm of children at her feet and a look of etiquette on her face. She noticed him with a nod in his direction.

“Ah, Phil. I was just going to send someone up for you,” she held back on emotion in her voice and Phil guessed it was because of yesterday’s events. “We need to get moving, quickly. I’ll be taking a group of you down to the school, to show you the way. It’s only for this morning though.”

“Okay,” Phil said. “How far is it?”

He couldn’t really remember what Lent had said about its whereabouts. The sudden memory of the peculiar boy ushered Martyn’s face to the front of Phil’s mind and he searched around briefly for him. After a moment, he guessed he’d probably already gone on ahead.

A much younger child tugged on Miss Leer’s jacket sleeve, whining about something or other, and she turned away from Phil’s question.

“Not far,” Dan muttered, for her. “Two minutes at most.”

“Are you walking with us?” Phil asked him, having completely forgotten the importance of his question. He shook his head and glanced up at Phil’s eyes for half a second—maybe not even that long. But the embarrassment from yesterday was present there and it plagued Phil’s heart.

There was an intense urge to reach out for him and a shuddering whisper of _queer_ , and Phil was so confused. Impetuously sad and confused.

The sky was anaemic and the infirmity of the early morning air nestled to safety under his skin. A car chugged past—headlights through the haziness and all—and he couldn’t stop thinking.

Dan fiddled with the ends of his sleeves.

><

The day ahead was a kind-of lifeless that hung deliberately over Phil’s head, weighing him down. His apathy was off-putting and he watched the day pass from behind the wispy school windows. He was in only one of Dan’s classes, English, and they sat seven desks apart. Phil counted them halfway through the lesson, when Mr. Adams spoke of an upcoming literary project.

Despite the tricky positioning, Phil was able to see Dan, just out of the corner of his eye. He noticed on multiple occasions that Dan didn’t write when he was supposed to and he conspicuously wasn’t paying attention. He pushed his head down into his arms on the desk at one point, and Phil wondered how on earth he was keeping up. The answer was that he wasn’t and Mr. Adam’s patience eventually crackled like electricity.

“Daniel Howell.”

Phil stopped writing abruptly and snapped his head up at the name. Dan seemed to mirror this motion as he raised his own attention from his crossed arms.

“Young man, if my lessons bore you so greatly, you might as well leave. You know where the door is,” Mr. Adams hurled the words at Dan with an unforgiving harshness. “I’m getting rather sick of your lack of manners. This is a school, you need to start showing some respect.”

“Sorry, Sir,” Dan apologised, small. He scratched the nape of his neck and picked up his pen, looking so tragically tired and like he didn’t quite know what to do.

“If you’re staying, for the love of all things holy, pay attention. And write this down. Now,” Mr. Adams tapped a wooden ruler against the board's surface.

Dan followed the instruction in one swift motion and without a word back. His hand seemed to dance across the page as he raced to scrawl down the notes, until a boy behind him leant forward, kicking the leg of his chair and knocking him. The pen slid as a result, right across the page. Phil saw the stiffening of his body, all the way from his toes to his shoulders, and it was like watching somebody getting turned to stone.

“Oops. Sorry, Daniel,” The boy sniggered, and there was a loud snort from the front. An echo of humoured laughs bounced courageously around the classroom, because it was obviously the _funniest_ thing to ever happen. And it probably was, for a sea of bored children. Phil just didn’t find it particularly amusing to watch Dan’s humiliation.

“Behave yourselves, the lot of you. I’ll have none of that in here,” Mr. Adams gave the class a strict warning and Phil thought that maybe he would like him, had he not just told Dan off himself.

He turned back around and continued with the lesson at a deathly slow pace. He didn’t catch the boy kick Dan’s chair the next three times, but Phil did.

><

It was nothing short of a miracle that the sun was shining when school ended. English just so happened to be the last lesson of the day and Phil hurried in putting his book away when the bell rang faintly through the little building. As the class filed out of the room, he found Dan at his desk, who was just pulling his own bag onto his back and moving his shoulders in a sort-of uncomfortable motion.

“Hello,” Phil greeted, quietly gentle.

“Hey,” Dan said. His eyes seemed locked in a stare on Phil’s face and he had to blink to carry his gaze. Everything was resigned between them, and Phil couldn’t decide if that was good or bad.

“Are you okay?”

“Hhm, yeah,” Dan tucked his chair under his desk. It wasn’t enough, it wasn’t nearly enough. “You ready to get out of here?”

“Course,” Phil said. He knew Dan was just making conversation really, knew it was something to distract them from the void that would remain without it, the void that demanded answers. The void they were both pretending wasn’t there and waiting.

So they left the classroom, left the school, moved out onto the playground and towards the big, metal gate that had been pulled open for the end of the day. Dan’s stride was so heavy, Phil heard every thud of his shoes against the concrete and he thought: _Do you want me to ask again?_

“Dan,” Phil started on an exhale. _Where was he going with this?_ There was too much to say, too much he needed to address. He wasn’t sure where he was going to begin. “Do you want to talk?”

Dan scrunched his face up into an agitated frown and tucked a curl of his hair behind his ear. He didn’t say anything for a long, long time and the silence extended like a blanket of desolation.

“Dan, I’m—I don’t want you to—” Phil paused to breathe, since being around Dan seemed to put so much pressure on his lungs. “I want you to be okay. You aren’t okay, are you?”

“I don’t know. I will be,” he said the words like they would be enough for Phil, like the promise that he was going to be okay in the future was the same as him being okay now, but that wasn’t the case. At least not for Phil. Because he was fully aware of how he’d grown so fond of Dan over the short span of time, and that he was probably not going to stay around long enough to see this sadness pass.

“Look at this weather,” Dan mumbled, when Phil couldn’t conjure up an answer. They’d left the school playground and were heading down the route Miss Leer had given this morning. “It’s actually sunny and I can’t play footie.”

“Don’t worry about it. There’s gonna be more days like this,” Phil assured calmly.

“Yeah, but you don’t know how long you’re staying,” Dan said, and his eyes were warning. Phil imagined a meteor crashing down into the earth in that second, obliterating everything in its wake, licking flames across the sculpted city and destroying it.

“Suppose not. But maybe it’ll be a while yet,” Phil said. “There’s other things we can do, too. Like games and stuff. It isn’t that big of a deal really.”

Dan looked at him for a long moment. “Do you always do that?”

“Do, what?”

“Look on the bright side of everything. Make it not seem so bad.”

Phil shrugged, suddenly feeling embarrassed, and looked to the floor. “I don’t know,” he said to the ground.

Dan didn’t say anything else as he slipped down into a narrow alleyway. Phil followed, reluctantly.

“Is this the right way?” Phil asked then, unsure and completely conscious of his surroundings.

“It’s just a shortcut.”

“A shortcut? The walk’s two minutes, Dan, how much shorter can it get?”

“Shut up,” A grin streamed onto Dan’s face like water gushing out of a faucet and he bit down hard into his lip, as though he was trying to stifle a rising laugh. Phil’s smile came easy at his expression.

They passed a brick wall coloured with art, different shades and tints and hues. They slipped over one another to make strange patterns, but the red was running and Phil found the word _queer_ amongst the surges of colour.

Dan didn’t notice the artwork as he continued along, ill-tempered. His face was drawn with veneers of negativity and yet, somehow, Phil still didn’t want to look away from him. There was that definite beauty in his structure, something that never seemed to fade. The softness of his skin contradicted the red on the wall, the litter caught in the light breeze, the distant fumes of thick city smoke.

_How could a boy so lovely live in such an ugly world?_

“Dan?”

Dan looked over at him. “Yeah, mate?”

“You’re alright, you know?” Phil said, not really knowing if it made half as much sense aloud as it did in his head.

Nevertheless, Dan’s eyes seemed to soften and he didn’t even have to say ‘thank you’ for Phil to hear the words. Still, he managed an impossibly gentle, “Thanks, Phil,” and there was a pull on the spaces between Phil’s fingers then that didn’t make a bit of sense.

For the next minute or so, there was just Dan, Phil and the city, and it felt so wrong and so right at the same time. And then they arrived back at the orphanage and there was a spurt of reality that seemed to drown Phil, like somebody had pushed his head underwater.

Miss Leer was standing in the reception when they stepped inside, sunlight treading lightly behind them in the open cracks of the doorway.

“Phil, just the person!” she burst with acknowledgement, looking spirited in her mannerisms. “I need to talk to you in my office, please. It’s about yesterday.”

Phil was giving an earnest nod and a strong, “Of course, Miss,” before his mind had time to catch up.

Dan was there, waiting, and he gave Phil a glance that said _I’m sorry_ in the least exasperatingly sympathetic way. Phil collected his wits and headed through into the office.

The room was scenic in its entirety. Everything corresponded with the hard grey of the walls and it all looked like static. The air inside was muggy, almost suffocating. It was hotter in here than it was outside and definitely in the reception, where there was probably air conditioning. Phil watched a flustered Miss Leer sit down at a cluttered desk and wipe a hand along her forehead, puffing out air. She looked younger than she’d ever seemed in that moment, cheeks a hot pink, clad in a floral dress. Phil looked at her and saw a child running through a field, the long threads of grass tickling her legs.

There were three seats opposite where she’d sat, and he simply located one of them. The security system was glaring in the corner of the room, flickering green beams onto the walls. Cameras, electric currents, intimidating views of the building.

“Right,” Miss Leer cracked open a big folder and began to flit through it. She glanced up briefly and said, “Take that jacket off, if you want. It’s much hotter in here than it is out there.”

Phil shook his head, polite. “I’m alright.”

“Suit yourself,” Miss Leer sighed and stopped suddenly on page in the folder. She chewed on the inside of her cheek and scrunched her face up in a punctual concentration. “I’ve recorded the incident down yesterday, in here. This is my book of behavioural issues for every child in the orphanage and I like all the ones with a mark to be aware of it.”

Phil didn’t know what to say, what to even think. Disappointment ran through currents of guilt in his veins and he felt the fountain of self-pity under his skin. He nodded.

“So I’d just like you to know that you have a mark under your name. We call them strikes, and I issue three of them before the consequences become more serious,” Miss Leer continued. “I’ve also given Dan one. Of course, I’m not just punishing you. You were both equally as wrong and, because of that, you will be sharing the same punishment. You will not be playing football either.”

Phil had seemingly forgotten how to do anything but move his head as he nodded again. 

“If you know this is going to happen again, I’d like to advise that you stay away from Dan. I know that’s hard because you’re friends—yes?”

Another nod.

“But please know that he’s not like other children. He’s quite a troubled soul, difficult to mix with, you get the gist. He’s had a lot of things go wrong for him in his life and that reflects on his attitude. He’s a bit of a complex character—” Miss Leer laughed. “Good Lord, sometimes it feels like I’ve spent my whole career trying to figure out that boy. He’s one of the minority, that’s for sure.”

 _One of the minority? What was that supposed to mean?_ Phil thought. Every word was like the emphasis surrounding a question mark.

“Anyway, you seem like a lovely boy and I wouldn’t want you getting caught up in all that,” Miss Leer started speaking again before the final word of her previous sentence had soaked into the air, and into Phil’s head. _Was she still talking about Dan?_ He really had no idea.

All he knew was that, if she was, he didn’t like it. He didn’t like that everything about Dan seemed such an effort, such a stretch. Everything seemed like a warning.

“Of course, Miss,” Phil agreed, just because it was probably best that he did.

“Good,” she shut her folder with a loud clasp. “So, did you have a nice first day?”

“Great, thank you. It seems like a really good school.”

“It is,” Miss Leer’s smile was short-lasting, and she was talking quickly again. She seemed to have a habit of that. “Right, you should probably head on up then. Do you have anything to do for the rest of the evening?”

“Um,” Phil faltered. “I’m not really sure. I didn’t bring any books with me or anything. Or comics. I brought nothing but clothes really.”

Miss Leer thought for a moment, then said, “We have a collection of books and board games behind the front desk. After getting changed, you could come down and choose a few that look interesting.”

Phil left after agreeing on that. When he made his way into the room, blurring out his extent of surroundings, Dan was pulling a hoodie over his hair, messing it all up. He heard Harrison’s voice somewhere, off, and it felt like jolting forward in a car.

“Hey, are you alright?” Dan was running his fingers over his brown hair.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Phil dropped his backpack onto his bed.

“What did she want?”

“Just to tell me that she’s put a mark under my name in her folder or something. For behaviour. Oh, and that I can’t play footie either because we deserve the same punishment.”

“Really?” Dan slowed, in slight shock for a moment before the guilt came steaming behind. “Phil, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble, I didn’t mean for any of it to happen.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Phil tried his best at a smile of reassurance. “It could be worse, right?”

Dan made an expression of mock irritation. “There you go again, Mr. Brightness. Can I not be miserable about anything?”

“Nope, I won’t allow it,” Phil grinned, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it from his shoulders. He reached for another one, looser, the fabric a soft red, and fiddled with pulling the sleeves out for a moment. He could feel Dan’s slow eyes burning into the stretches of pale skin across his torso, along his stomach and up over his ribs. 

_Queer._

Harrison’s laugh cracked like closing shutters over the quiet air and Dan immediately looked away, down to the dusty slats on the floor. Phil pulled his shirt over his head.

“Miss Leer said we could go get some books and board games later,” Phil said. “What do you think?”

“You mean, from behind the front desk?” Dan looked up at him and he nodded. “Nah, I already have some under my bed. I’ve had them for years, I suppose they’re mine really. Why do you need them?”

“Because I didn’t bring any books or anything, you know,” Phil shrugged aimlessly. He felt stupid just saying it, for some reason.

“Oh,” Dan paused and glanced over to a little bookshelf beside his bed. “Do you want to, like, look for some? I have a few that you can read.”

“Okay, yeah. But only if you’re sure,” Phil was strongly fond of the idea of reading to pass the time. He’d been reading since he was just a toddler and had progressively improved the skill over the years. His uncle had this plausible collection of classics up in his attic and he let Phil choose one to read every weekend. He wished he could show Dan.

“Course I am. Come choose some,” Dan leant through the space to tug on Phil’s arm lightly, hot fingers linking around his skin. Every fibre of his being rose in the presence of Dan’s fingertips, and it was like feeling empty for a long time, and then suddenly feeling everything all at once.

“Most of these I’ve already read, so just take your pick,” Dan said, as he knelt down beside the little bookcase. “They’re all good though. Choose a couple, if you like.”

Phil ran his fingers down the feeble spines. The thin coats of dust were impossibly thick between the pages and he closed his eyes to give a tug on a random book. Opening them, he turned the paper cover over.

“ _Where the Red Fern Grows_ ,” Dan read aloud, over his shoulder.

“Is it any good?”

“It’s brilliant. But really sad. Like, really, really.”

“Really, really?” Phil mimicked with a papery smile.

Dan nudged his side and carefully took the book from Phil’s hold, saying, “You can’t read that one.”

“Oh. I thought you said I could borrow any of them —”

“I know, and you can, but not that one. You’ll probably cry and, like, that isn’t a good thing,” Dan’s voice fell an octave lower on the last sentence and Phil wondered if it meant anything at all. 

“I wouldn’t cry.”

“You would. And you’d ruin the pages,” Dan joked.

Phil mock-frowned and folded his arms. “Come on. Is it really _that_ sad?”

“Yup,” Dan nodded once. “Really, really.”

Phil didn’t hold back on a laugh as Dan slid the book back into its place, fitting it perfectly. There was something really nice about the way he seemed to handle things, handle everything. Soft and delicate. It was almost as though every fragment of anything on the earth had value and he was the only one aware of it.

“What about this one?” Dan was pushing a book under Phil’s nose suddenly. _Bridge to Terabithia_ , the title read, with _Katherine Paterson_ beneath it.

“Never heard of it,” Phil admitted. “Are you going to tell me that’s too sad, too?”

“Well, it is actually,” Dan said. “But, no. You can read it. In fact, I want you to.”

“Okay,” Phil took the book from Dan gently and shuffled across to his bed.

“Do you want another one?”

“No, I’m okay with this. I’m not going to take all your books.”

“You know you could,” Dan said as he stood up and followed Phil, settling down on the bed at his side.

The noise seemed to have died down significantly since Harrison had left with a click of the door, and a few other boys had undoubtedly followed him.

Phil brushed his fingertips into the worn corners of the book in his hands. “What’s this about then?”

“So many things. So many amazing, wonderful, fantastical things,” Dan lay on his bed, looking up at him through hooded eyes, head resting on his crossed palms and feet high in the air.

Phil hugged the book tight against his chest, like it was the most precious thing he’d ever held, and he was lucky to be holding it.

“Really? That good?” he asked, soft, eyebrows raised at Dan’s adorning enthusiasm.

The brown-eyed boy nodded, not a blink of uncertainty in his tone as he claimed, “It’s probably the best book I’ve ever read. But maybe that’s _The Little Prince_. Or even _Charlotte’s Web_ —Oh, have you ever read that?”

“Is that the one about the spider?”

“Yeah, the one called Charlotte. It’s sad too, at the end, but I enjoyed it. I don’t think all endings have to be happy to be good.”

“Me, too,” Phil was aware of how he was consistently agreeing with everything Dan said, but at least it wasn’t an act. He did agree with everything Dan said. All that he’d said so far.

“So,” Dan smiled. “What’s your favourite book?”

“Mine?”

He nodded.

“Um, _The Giving Tree_?” Phil’s answer poured out like a question, and his fear of sparking Dan’s negativity or disagreement was present. However, when Dan’s face stretched up into a grin, Phil felt his heart settle.

“That’s such a good book,” There were smudges of the afternoon light in Dan’s smile.

“I know, right? I only read it because my brother lent me his copy. He said he didn’t want it, apparently it was rubbish—”

“What?”

“Exactly. He got it so wrong. It’s great, isn’t it?”

“Amazing,” Dan agreed. “My favourite part is the last part. You know, when the tree doesn’t have anything left to give because the boy’s taken it all. She’s just a stump, with nothing left. But she asks him to sit and he does.”

Dan’s voice had grown significantly in softness as he spoke, continuing on with, “I used to promise myself I’d never be like that, you know? When I was proper little. I promised I’d never take so much from someone that I left them with nothing.”

“I don’t think you should ever love someone as much as the tree loved the boy either,” Phil added, equally as gentle. “It’s a bit mad, isn’t it? To let someone take all that from you. I’d have said no every time.”

“But she loved him,” Dan reminded. “And that’s what love is, I guess. Or at least it was to them.”

Phil found himself thinking the same as Dan, again. Everything he said was so fantastic and Phil was just completely in awe of it all. He’d never met any kid like him before, somebody that spoke and acted and listened the way Dan did. Somebody with so much to say, yet kept so much to himself.

“What book are you reading right now?” Phil inquired.

“ _Winnie The Pooh_ ,” Dan answered, simply. “The one about the bear and his best friend, Christopher. There’s loads of them.”

“Are they good?”

“The best. I’ve read almost all of them now, over the years. I started when I was about five.”

Flickering images of a five-year-old Dan, even softer, prettier, sweeter than he was now, smouldered into Phil’s memory, before the smoke faded away.

“They must be good then. Hey, have you ever read _Green Eggs and Ham_?”

><

The remainder of the afternoon passed in a fog of brown eyes and book titles, hearty laughter and crinkled bedsheets. They ate dinner together, helped clear away and then headed back upstairs. The routine was already becoming familiar to Phil and he didn’t know whether that was a good or bad thing, the fact that he was settling in so quickly.

Once he’d changed into his pyjamas, he slipped beneath his covers and found the book Dan had leant him at the end of his bed. As he opened it in the dingy light, Martyn found his eyes from the bed beside him, looking over the top of his comic.

“Where’d you get that?” he looked curious.

“Dan,” Phil replied, and Martyn pressed his face into a frown. “You know, _Dan_. My friend. The boy in the bed the other side of me.”

Martyn leant forward slightly until his eyes found Dan, who had his back turned to them, own book opened. Phil wondered how many words were swimming through his head in that exact second and the speed at which his thoughts were racing. He wondered if he touched the side of his head, he’d feel electricity.

“Ah, so _that’s_ Dan. Nice,” Martyn settled back down against his pillow, conversation topic already shifting. “How did you find school today?”

“Good. It was good, I liked it,” Phil said. “And you?”

“Yeah, fine, bro. Boring, but fine,” Martyn paused for a moment, and then struggled out, “I spoke to Mrs Abbott just before I came up. She said she was going to move me into another room tomorrow, like, with the older boys. I said only if that’s okay with you, obviously.”

Phil wanted to say ‘no’ and maybe he probably should’ve, but he hated to be an inconvenience. Either way, he had Dan now, and he’s been distant from Martyn since their arrival anyway. So he smiled and said:

“That’s really great.”

“Are you sure?” Martyn narrowed his eyes, almost suspicious. “I mean, I can wait a few more days in here, if you want.”

Phil wondered how Martyn knew they’d still be here in a few more days. He was already starting to feel a longing for his uncle and his familiarity. It was like an itch under his skin that he couldn’t reach.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me, Martyn.”

“You know I do. There’s a lot of boys much bigger than you in here and some of them I don’t even believe are your age, but whatever,” Martyn shrugged it off. Harrison’s face immediately bounced to the front of Phil’s mind and he looked across to him. He had his bedsheets draped over his pudgy legs and he was laughing. Everything seemed to still around him, like he had an unspoken power. Phil turned his eyes to Dan and found solace in his droopy eyes.

“You sure you’d be alright with me moving?” Martyn spoke again.

“Positive,” Phil managed a smile and turned back to his book.

He was careful, so careful, when he pushed back the first page. It was brittle and murky, a timing shade of a yellowy-brown, and the corners were folded slightly inwards. It was overspilling with _Dan, Dan, Dan_ and it made Phil’s head spin.

Then, as if on cue, he chirped up from his bed, “Are you reading it now?”

“I’m going to try,” Phil glanced over at him. “Maybe just the first chapter, though. We don't have long before bed.”

“Okay,” Dan said and pushed his head back into his own book, hiding away.

Phil looked down at the first line. _Ba-room, ba-room, ba-room, baripity, baripity, baripity, baripity . . ._

><

“Phil.”

There was a soft but prominent press of his name, then two hands on his shoulders. A buzz of electricity smouldered from the curve of his neck to the bottom of his spine, and he was opening his eyes quickly.

“Phil, hey,” It was Dan, knelt down at the bedside, darkness blotchy around his pretty face. “I’m sorry for waking you, mate, I just wanted to put this away for you and I can’t get it—”

He was pulling on the book, caught between Phil’s right side and the mattress. Phil shifted on instinct, and it fell to the floor with a light thud that interrupted the quiet air.

“There you go, sorry. You read too much and fell asleep,” Dan picked it up and put it on the nearest surface. Phil groaned and rubbed his eyes, still somewhat drowsy. _What was happening?_ His head was hazed with clouds, incoherent. Everything was slow and it felt like a dream.

“No, no, it’s okay. Go back to sleep, it’s the middle of the night—Look, come here,” Dan hushed him, voice tender and velvety. His small fingers looped around the edges of the bedsheets and he pulled them over Phil, up to his neck.

The fabric provided comfort, Dan’s fingers a mild warm against Phil’s skin, and his eyes fluttered shut on a soft exhale. Dan gave a soft puff of air through his lips and it tickled at Phil’s calmed face.

“Night, mate.”

There was an indistinct rustling as Dan found his way back to his own bed in the low light.

Phil mumbled something back, something that didn’t make a bit of sense to anybody. But through his tired mind, he hoped Dan got the message.

_Thank you. You’re so lovely. Goodnight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s your opinion on the story so far? It’s a long one, I’ll warn you. It takes a lot of dedication but (I hope) it’s worth it. So stick around <3


	5. V

**V**

As it were, the next few days travelled by apathetically. Dan kept his head down in English class, and Phil got scolded once for not paying attention when he’d gotten himself too lost in the boy seven desks in front of him. They walked home together everyday, sometimes in a requisite silence, sometimes not. Sometimes they spoke about school, footie, books, and sometimes they didn’t.

Whatever way, it was okay.

Martyn moved out into another room. They saw one another less, and when they did, it was often in the company of Lent. But that was okay too.

On the string of uneventful afternoons, Dan and Phil read together. Occasionally, when he’d get bored of playing outside, Harrison would wander in and find humour in the way Dan’s legs crossed over Phil’s. He’d spew hurtful comments towards the both of them, but often just to Dan.

“Oh, lads, we’re living with a couple of _queers_!” he’d sung, clapping his hands in synch to the beat of the sickening words. Phil watched the way Dan had extracted all his limbs back to himself again at ‘queer’, and remained considerably quiet for a long time, even after Harrison had lost interest in them and left the room.

Phil considered, for a moment, asking him what it meant. He didn’t. He also considered asking him about his arms, which he’d caught sight of again and again over the course of the week but he didn’t do that either.

Despite the distractions, Phil read six whole chapters of _Bridge to Terabithia_. Dan joked that he was a slow reader, and that he’d finished it in two days. Phil shrugged it off, with the promise that he was really enjoying it. He was. Jesse and Leslie reminded him of two people he knew but couldn’t place, whom lived in a wonderful world that existed only for them.

On Wednesday, Dan finished _Winnie The Pooh_ and started reading another. And he dug his copy of _The Giving Tree_ out from his shelf, for Phil.

Phil’s heart warmed when he took the beaten copy from him and inquired, “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Dan had smiled and continued onto another subject, chugging words out at the speed of light. Phil kept the book safely in his drawer, between his socks.

As promised, on Friday, they got their ball back and were told by Miss Leer that they could play after school. But, as luck would have it, it rained. Hard. Dan sat scowling on his bed as Phil read his next chapter.

“Can you believe it, Phil? It’s sunny all week and then rains the one day we don’t want it to. I _hate_ England,” he grumbled. His shoulders were slumped back against his headboard, a perfect analysis of his mood.

“Don’t worry about it. We have all day tomorrow,” Phil said, eyes batting up and down, between Dan and the book.

“That isn’t the point,” Dan said, pathetically glum. “We don’t have all the time in the world, Phil. Really, we don’t. You’re probably leaving soon because your uncle’s your best friend and he wouldn’t leave you here and I still can’t play footie and—”

“Dan, Dan, hey,” Phil sat up, sparked with concern for Dan’s pessimism and the honesty in his words. “What are you talking about? It’ll be okay, don’t think like that.”

“How can I not? You _are_ leaving soon, you said so yourself.”

“Maybe not for a little while,” Phil whispered back. He hoped Dan heard over the room’s volume and the noise of plummeting rain.

“You could leave tonight,” Dan said, and his eyes found Phil’s with a rushed intensity. He lost balance across syllables as he blurted, “You could, couldn’t you? In the middle of the night and I wouldn’t know—You wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye, right? You wouldn’t, right?”

Phil was already shaking his head before Dan had pushed the last word out. “Of course I wouldn’t, Dan. I’d never dream of it.“

“Okay,” Dan swallowed, small. “Know that I’m not good at goodbyes, though.”

“Neither am I,” Phil admitted.

“I should be excellent at them now. I’ve had so much practice,” Dan looked embarrassed at the revelation. Phil imagined tallying up all the times this poor boy had had to say goodbye, and the undoubtedly high number seemed to stick to the insides of his head like it was clad with glue. “It doesn’t make it any easier though. It’s horrible being left behind.”

Guilt broke up the air in Phil’s mouth and he breathed in so deep, his chest rattled. The words were like a punch in the throat and the pain dragged. It hurt Phil because that was him, that was what he was doing. He was going to leave. And it meant nothing to count up these strangers that had left Dan behind, when he was one himself. It was hypocritical and Phil didn’t even think the fact that he _wanted_ to stay meant anything to anyone. That was the worst of it all.

“I’m really lucky to be your friend.”

The sentence floated to the surface and it took Phil a movement to realise that he’d said it. It was a bit sudden and undirected, but it looked like it gave Dan some consolation.

He half smiled. “I’m really not that special.”

“Sure you are,” Phil said. “We’re all special.”

“That’s what _you_ think. You’re happy-go-lucky.”

“I try to be.”

“Hhm. You’re so nice,” It came as a whisper. Dan was looking at him like he was everything, the stars and the moon and the galaxies. All things bright and beautiful.

Phil didn’t quite know where to look himself. “Thank you.”

Dan sighed, his melancholy channeling through in a rapid gush. “I wish I was more like you.”

“I wish I was more like _you_ ,” Phil didn’t wait a moment to respond, pushing the last word out with a significant force. Dan’s eyes cast over to him, half-believing, half-not, and he blinked in thought.

“You probably don’t,” Was all Dan gave back. “If, like, you knew it all.”

A startlingly mystery dawned over Dan’s head and Phil felt the shift in mood right down to his bones, could feel the difference in the way the air tasted and smelt and felt. “Knew, what?” he asked softly, and when Dan looked away with a slight shake of his head, he tried again. “ _What_ , Dan?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he abandoned, voice gnawing delicately on a plead. _Don’t_ , his tone said. _Please, don’t. Leave it alone_. And Phil couldn’t form enough words to ask again.

A bolt of lightning swam through the room for a fraction of a second, igniting the room in a kaleidoscope of illumination. The sudden light blinded Phil, it felt like, and he rubbed the surprise from his eyes. He was reminded then of how little he really knew Dan, of how many questions he’d forgotten he needed an answer for. It seemed like Dan was going to continue downplaying the seriousness with remarks of ‘it doesn’t matter’, and so Phil was just going to have to continue pulling until the wires began to snap. He was going to have to pull until they broke, until _Dan_ broke and that wasn’t going to be a pretty sight to see—

But there was so much missing from him, so much he was keeping locked away; so much Phil wanted to see, needed to see, because he didn’t want Dan to fight whatever battle he was fighting alone.

Phil had the feeling he’d done enough on his own already and when he settled his gaze on him, he looked like he’d given up on the conversation.

He looked like the type of kid that had given up on a lot of things.

><

It didn’t rain on Saturday. That, admittedly, was hopeful. On a stomach half full of cereal and tea, Phil found Dan already out kicking the ball into the net. He hadn’t been in bed, or down at breakfast. Phil’s heart leapt at the sight of the boy, thin and lanky beneath the sleepy sky.

“Morning,” Phil greeted him. Like any early morning in England, the air was crisp, bitter, and Phil had zipped his jacket right up to his chin.

“Morning,” Dan responded briefly, pausing to look down at the ball for a moment and study the layout of his upcoming shot. In the extent of a second, he was kicking at the ball and watching it soar high into the goal.

“You’re getting good,” Phil’s smile was the predominant source of brightness on the chilly morning. “How long have you been out here?”

“A while. I skipped breakfast, so,” Dan shrugged, finalising his sentence.

“Yeah. Why?”

He clambered over to retrieve the ball, dismissing, “I don’t know. Not really hungry.”

“Oh.”

Dan shot with more power this time, hitting with a force too strong, and it bounced off the post to skid along the grass. The field was waterlogged from the weather that previous night, so the sodden texture only added to the distance it travelled as it slid along the mud.

“God,” Dan blasphemed, word sliding under his breath.

Phil watched him run for the ball again and commented on his return, “Don’t worry about it, it’s only one shot.”

“Here, have a go,” Dan passed the ball across to Phil, and he stopped it under his foot. “Show me how it’s done, coach.”

Phil’s lips raised into an easy smile as he positioned himself in front of the goal. Inside, he felt nauseous, unsteady on his feet. Dan’s eyes were scalding every inch of his skin and burning him with scrutiny. It felt like he was cracking Phil open, using his fingers to pry each of his ribs apart and see what was inside, stringing his thoughts up like Christmas lights for the world to admire.

In the end, Phil went for a fast shot over a stable, strategic one, just to get it over with quickly. He smashed his shoe hard against the ball and it smacked, noiseless, into the net. When he spun to Dan, he found a paragon of fascination.

“You’re brilliant,” Dan looked rather dazed in the centre of the field, minimised by the large sky.

“I’m no better than you.”

“Come off it, that was better than I could ever do. You didn’t even think about it, you just—Wow,” Dan’s voice slid up and shook, as stable as a man on stilts. 

“You want a shot?” Phil asked, ball clasped in his hands. Mud had smeared thickly up the insides of his palms.

“You’re all muddy,” Dan stuck his tongue out, exaggerating his disgust. “Ew, no. Go away.”

A smile broke out across Phil’s lips and he pretended to throw the ball in Dan’s direction. His laugh bubbled up over the steady flow of wind when he flinched away, hands coming up in defence.

“Phil!”

“It’s only a bit of mud!”

“It’s _vile_. I have minor OCD, you know,” Dan clicked his tongue off the roof of his mouth. The foreign language filed up a cabinet of confusion in Phil’s mind.

Phil frowned, lines folding across his forehead in an unspoken intrigue. “Oh,” he said. “What’s that mean?”

“It’s obsessive compulsive disorder. It’s when people do things over and over to stop something from happening. Lining stuff up, putting things in order, locking the same door again and again. My mom had it, she was obsessing all the time,” Dan’s voice was particularly distant on the final sentence. _His mom?_ Phil was sure that was the first time those words had tumbled from his lips, out into the harshness of the real world. He’d remember if they already had; _mom_ was unwholesomely heartbreaking in Dan’s warm voice. It sent chills shuffling up Phil’s spine, from that curve at the bottom to that bump at the top.

He didn’t know why. He didn’t know if it meant anything.

(It probably did. It probably _always_ did.)

“Do you go to the doctor and stuff?”

“I’ve never been but, yeah, people do. To get pills and stuff. It’s a psychiatric disorder.”

“Psychiatric?” The word reeled from Phil’s tongue, the outline tasting exotic. “What’s that?”

Dan’s voice was simple, unfazed, effortless as he responded, “Something that affects the mind.”

And then Phil started thinking of this boy’s intellect. Dan had a rested look on his face that made him seem all the more settled with said complexities of vocabulary. Like it was common, and he was natural, or as natural as Dan Howell could be from behind his uncertified mask of mystery.

Phil had a sudden impulse and he acted upon it quickly, blurting, “How old are you?”

That made Dan laugh. Like, really laugh. The sound bubbled up from somewhere in his chest and reached somewhere in Phil’s. It sounded like the spark of a match, the distant crackling of a beginning record. His shoulders pushed up slightly towards his ears—like he was shrugging, but he wasn’t—and his cheeks rounded off perfectly around the shape of his smile. And his _eyes_ —his eyes did that thing in which they creased at the corners and narrowed a little from the intensity. Phil didn’t know how to contain it all inside his ribcage, how he could possibly like a smile as much as he liked Dan’s.

“Ten,” Dan answered eventually, but Phil had forgotten his question. “You?”

“Eleven.”

“You’re older than me?” Surprise struck Dan’s voice.

“Guess I am.”

“Yeah, that’s just—Well, it’s weird, don’t you think?”

Phil didn’t know, he didn’t have the energy to know anything at that moment in time; anything but _Dan. Dan, Dan, Dan_. It was so much of him, so much of his everything. So much to see and and find and want and Phil could feel him everywhere, prickling under his skin. He could scratch and claw at his arms but he wasn’t going to go away—he was just about getting settled. And there was nobody to explain it to him, why he felt this way. Nobody to put their hand on his shoulder and say, “Hey, kid, let’s talk about your feelings.” There was no instruction manual on how to feel, no bullet-pointed lists or chronological commands to guide him.

He was just walking down the path that felt right, and whether that was a good or a bad thing, was yet to be seen.

Upon gathering himself, Phil was able to construct a reply of unexpected easiness, “It’s only, like, one year. When’s your birthday?”

“June eleventh.”

“Ah. You’re not eleven for a little while then,” Phil realised, speaking through the September air.

Dan shook his head, seemingly silenced, and looked down at the ball on the grass. He kicked it across to Phil and said, “Can you teach me how to pass properly? I’m not really very good at that,” commonly lacking self-confidence.

“Bet you are. But, sure, let’s try anyways,” Phil created a gaping distance between the two of them. When he looked back up, Dan was biting his lip, teeth softly coming down into the skin as he eyed their positioning.

“Not too far, like,” he said, fiddling with the ends of his shirt that came over his hands, like always. Loose fray was looped around his thumb, and Phil wondered if the cotton thread gave him any comfort as he rubbed it against his forefinger.

“It’ll be fine,” The promise pulled on the distance between them. “It’s just a bit of practise, you don’t have to be perfect. Just show me your skills.”

“I haven’t got any skills,” Dan mumbled, deadpanned. 

“Hey, now. I’ll be the judge of that.”

A moment passed in which all was still, and the world seemed stilted on its axis, the grey sky crooked, before Dan took his aim and kicked. It trailed just slightly off target, slipping past Phil’s foot, but he managed to stop it with a large step to his right.

“See! I’m terrible.”

“Would you stop beating yourself up?” Phil sounded incredulously fed up. “How many times have I got to tell you? You’re awesome.”

“You’ve only told me _once_ ,” Dan pouted, and it was like he wanted Phil to spur compliments at him. The soft curl in his hair fell down, brushing against the lids of his eyes and—

The world was waking around him, the morning stirring in cool air and a dull-canvased skyline. He looked perfect, Phil thought, propped up under the premature clouding. Absolutely perfect. There was a blur of the atmosphere before his lips when he breathed out, fanning around the curve of his mouth and a softness to him that hazed around his outline.

 _I hope you’ll be okay_ , Phil’s thoughts whispered foggily.

( _Please be okay_.)

“Well,” he went with it as a distraction. “You’re awesome. You’re really awesome. You’re really, really awesome. You’re really, really, re—”

“Okay,” A grin slid over Dan’s face, swallowing him up into a moment of happiness. Crimson fanned up over the surface of his tanned skin. “Okay, okay. I’m awesome.”

“You are,” Phil nodded, once, and then darted back across the field, further this time.

“Kick it to me!” he called, with an obvious spring to his step.

Dan kicked harder at the ball and it flew across the pitch, moving above the grass, until it stopped directly before Phil’s shoe. _Better_ , Phil thought. _Much better._

“That was good!” he sent waves of praise to Dan, whose smile was effulgent, even from afar. “Try again!”

This time, when Phil kicked the ball back across the pitch, a figure pounced in front of Dan to snatch it. It took a few moments to recognise the boy, as Phil’s mind rushed in thin clippings, but it soon became dreadfully obvious that the rounded shape was Harrison.

Phil hurtled across the field, leaving behind all sense of rationality. Even just the thought of Dan being that far from him, with Harrison at his side, was enough. Danger chipped away at the situation presenting itself.

“Well, well, well,” Harrison stopped abruptly, feet halting at the same moment as his voice. He gave a deceiving smile as he circled a distance around Dan.

There was a pause, before: “What do we have here, then?”

“Go away,” Dan prodded. His attention was fastened on the muddy ball between Harrison’s chubby fingers. “And give us that back.”

Harrison scoffed and a smirk crept up along his face, like silhouettes of branches in a forest, twisted and tangled and contorted. Cruelty loomed over him.

And then, just like that, he rushed, “Think fast,” and punched his fist directly into Dan’s ribs. Dan gave a sound that convulsed uncomfortably in Phil’s ears and he curled his body inwards, face a fixture of suffering.

Phil’s fingers tightened into hard fists and he really didn’t know what that meant, didn’t know what this was building up to be inside of him, but it was rushing through his veins and flashing behind his eyes. Dan’s pain made him feel sick, and he had to manage his breathing in order to prevent puking up the contents of his stomach. It wrenched his gut, nauseous and agonising, and made his heart thud heavy against his chest. _Don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him, please, no, don’t hurt him_ —

Harrison rolled his eyes, a dash of nonchalance on his hard face. “You gotta be quicker than that, Danny. And honestly, it wasn’t even hard. Are all you fags this easy to smack up?”

 _Fags?_ Phil struggled to catch up with the rate the world seemed to be moving the moment he became aware of this word's existence, the rate Dan’s chest seemed to rise, fall, and then stop completely as Harrison’s eyes found Phil.

“Oh look, Danny, your _boyfriend_ isn’t going to help you,” Harrison’s foot came and booted forcefully into Dan’s ankles. The boy slipped, hands coming beneath him as he fell down onto the grass with a sloshy thud. Somewhere, something was spewing in Phil’s chest and it was like a bubble he couldn’t pop, a hand he couldn’t reach.

Dan was choking on air, struggling to pull himself up from the mud. Streaks splattered up his arms and along his elbows and Phil could hear his voice from earlier— _minor OCD_ —louder than he could hear anything else.

“He’s not my boyfriend, Harrison, he’s just—He’s my friend, he’s—”

“ _Sammy_ was your friend too, wasn’t he, Dan?” Harrison pressed hard on the points of his shoulder-blades, forcing him back down into the mess.

_Sammy._

“Stop,” Dan’s voice shattered with weakness on the word and he squirmed on the floor. “Stop, please, Harrison—”

“Shut it,” Harrison hissed and kicked his foot into Dan’s shins, fury cracking along Harrison’s impassive structure. Dan yelped at the cruelty and Phil came to a slow realisation that he hadn’t seen Harrison like this before—Of course, he’d seen flashes of anger and felt his wave of barbarous vocabulary.

But this attack was so violent and so harrowing and Phil had never seen such rage, never felt so helpless. _Do something, just do something_ , he could feel the tingle of temptation in his chest, but anything he planned to do would have inevitably made the situation worse. If it could possibly _get_ any worse.

And so he did nothing. He stood there, waiting and praying and cowering away, through every hit, every kick, every excruciating strike.

“You goddamn _queer_ —”

“Shut your mouth—”

“You and your kind all belong on the floor—”

“No wonder you’ve been here so long, who would want _you?_ —”

By the time Harrison was finished with the boy, there was nothing left to kick. Dan’s cries had muffled, dulled down to soft mews and Harrison didn’t so much as look when he dropped the ball onto the grass and walked away.

Just walked away. You’d never know he just kicked every trace of anything hopeful out of a helpless child.

And Phil—Phil _hated_ himself. He hated that he hadn’t even found it in him to watch, that even that was too much for him. And the way Dan looked at him, up from the ground, brown eyes heartsick, skin coated in sticky mud and patterns of purple bruising, was quite acutely agonising. Phil felt the twist in his chest; he couldn’t miss it.

“Dan.”

Phil was moving too fast and too late, and he didn’t know where to put his hands but he knew he had to try and lift the fragility in Dan’s body. The beaten boy gave a tortured whine when his shoulders were shifted, grabbing Phil’s wrists tightly and pleading, “Please, no. It hurts.”

 _I’m sorry_. “I know, Dan—I know, but you have to try and—” Phil wasn’t thinking straight, he wasn’t even sure this was actually happening— _how could he be?_ —and that reflected in the jumbling of his words. He tried to figure it all out as Dan cried, softly at first, then breaking out into a sea of whimpers.

It wasn’t fair. He was a mess of broken pieces and Phil couldn’t find the glue and it wasn’t fair. Harrison had walked away, smashed him up, destroyed him, and it wasn’t fair. 

Phil dropped down to his knees. _Was it selfish of him to be hurting so much, too? Was it selfish of him to be begging it to stop, too?_

“Dan, please don’t cry. It’s okay, look, it’ll be okay,” Phil moved his hands up to the boy’s collarbone, then around the back of his neck and up through his hair. It was soft under his fingers. _Queer_. “Please, Dan, please stop crying. I don’t know how to help you—”

He didn’t know what he was doing but he wanted it to stop.

“I hate him,” Dan sobbed. “I hate him, Phil, I hate him. I hate him so much, why can’t he just le-leave me alone?”

Phil slid his hands down Dan’s back and his arms involuntarily fell around his thin waist. Dan inhaled sharply into his hair, but he didn’t move. He was still, chest rattling with _pain, pain, pain_. It dawned slowly on Phil that he was hugging him, one hand on his shoulder, the other pushing himself up. He was holding his body up above Dan’s.

And this child—this poor, sad, child—was making him feel more than anybody else in his life and that wasn’t supposed to be because Dan wasn’t somebody who ever made anybody feel anything. That much was obvious. He was a smudge of pencil shading, a metaphor that didn’t make sense, a wrong answer.

And yet, despite all that, he didn’t deserve all that he got. He deserved happiness, but instead he’d been handed an anguish that licked along his limbs and his expressions and his everything like flames swallowing up wood.

Phil studied the veins in Dan’s skin because he was the definition of alive. The coloured lines were raised just slightly and Phil wanted to be closer to him, even closer. But their skin only just about brushed, fear separating their chests.

_Queer. Fags._

Dan’s existence made everything so difficult and beautiful at the same time. It was a strange concoction.

Dan drew his right arm around Phil’s neck and it was so much for Phil, too much.

“I’m sorry,” he said, instead of all the things he could’ve, should’ve. “I’m so sorry I didn’t stop him, I just—I didn’t know what to do and—”

“It’s okay,” Dan’s voice shook, jagged, like the corners of a blade.

“It’s not though, Dan, it’s not okay. Please don’t think it’s alright for somebody to hurt you like that.”

“It is alright. I’m alright, Phil—I will be, it’ll just take a while,” Dan held his breath in a painfully unconvincing way.

“You don’t ever have to pretend to be okay if you’re not,” Phil told him. “Don’t do that for anybody.”

Dan moved his head slightly, turned it just a little, and breathed Phil in. It seemed as though that was his response, but then:

“Can you h-help me up?”

Phil was vigilant as he tried to move himself from Dan. Failing, he fell clumsily on his side, hitting his hip on the muddy floor. He slung an arm over Dan’s waist and tried to lift him. 

“No,” Dan broke. “No, no, not like that. Please, that hurts.”

“I’m sorry—” Phil retracted back to himself. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I think—I just need to—”

“Here, put your arms, like,” Phil didn’t know how to put it, how to speak, and his head was hurting and Dan was hurting and he didn't know how things had gone so wrong so quickly. “Around my neck.”

Dan cast his arms down around the base of Phil’s neck. His knees were weak, quivering frailly, and Phil kept a tight grasp on him as he leant down for the ball and held it under his arm. 

“No, Phil, I’m gonna fall,” Dan panicked, voice coarse with struggle. “Phil, just leave the ball—”

“Stop moving, it’s okay,” Phil ensured, feeling exhausted himself. There was a strain on his body and his limbs and it was aching with a substantial depth. “I’ve got you, you’re not going to fall.”

( _Maybe we didn’t fall, maybe we flew into love_ —)

Dan pushed himself into Phil’s side, weightless, and an unspoken trust shuddered in the wind between them.

“We need to get inside. We need to clean you up,” Phil looked down at the mud on his knees and skin and clothes. “And me. It’s all such a mess.”

He didn’t really know what he was referring to, didn’t know what it was. But there was this thing that was blossoming around them, closing in on them, forcing them together at an impossible rate. It was clawing its fingers up Phil’s throat with every intention of suffocating him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was really intense but honestly this entire fic is, so yus it does get worse. All aside though, what do you make of Dan’s OCD comments? Note that his knowledge and understanding will probably be sorta inaccurate in areas because of his age—but do you think he actually has it? Not that he’s a liar, but that he finds a sense of normalcy in it?
> 
> (Hint, hint)


	6. VI

**VI**

Dan didn’t saying anything else outside on the field, and Phil didn’t expect him to. Amidst evident pain and sliding feet and desperate rushes of _please, Phil, no, it hurts,_ Phil managed to get them both safely inside. Dan moved himself a little further from the security of Phil’s chest upon arrival, when a group of boys fired insufferable glances in their direction and Phil heard Harrison’s voice.

Fortunately, they didn’t run into him. There was enough opportunity, at the speed they were moving. But as Phil lead Dan in through the tight bathrooms, sitting him down in one of the cubicles, he put a hand to his head and breathed. It felt like the first time ever.

Knowing he didn’t have time to count his breaths, he pulled some paper towels from the rack. As he wet the towels, the water sloshed down into the sink and Dan’s cries were background noise.

 _He_ was background noise.

“Phil,” Dan said, teeth-gritted, upon his return. “Everything hurts. Make it stop, please. You’re going to make it stop, aren’t you?”

“I’m gonna try,” Phil said. “Promise I’ll try.”

“And the mud. The mud, Phil, look at it all, it’s _everywhere_ —”

“That’s not important right now,” Phil absently dismissed. _Minor OCD_. Dan drew in hard, uncomfortable breaths. “I mean, it is, of course it is. But we need to clean the cuts up first, okay?”

Dan pulled his bottom lip into his mouth and nodded with reluctance. Tears lapped down over the blemishing colour in his lip and his expression was a promise of silence. Phil stretched his fingers down to the edges of Dan’s long sleeves, curling them upwards, only just touching his wrist bone, before Dan flinched back.

It took Phil a moment.

“My arms are okay, Phil,” Dan insisted, tone still somewhat shaky, despite the conviction in his voice. _Oh, no. The scars. The bruises. The pain._

“Dan, I—”

“No, please, they’re fine,” he looked stricken. “Please. Don’t worry.”

 _I’ve already seen what you’re trying to hide_ , Phil wanted to say. It always seemed like he had so much to say to Dan but never said it. He didn’t want anything to change between them—that was the thing—and revealing that he’d seen something he shouldn’t have was likely to do just that. It was an invasion of privacy, regardless of whether it was intentional or not, and the last thing Phil wanted in the world was to hurt Dan. But having his fingers so close to the marks on him was tempting, to say the least. It was like holding a magnet next to a piece of metal.

“Okay. Right, okay,” Phil’s agreement was hard to swallow as he gently took Dan’s hand in his own. It was warm, soft, completely delicate and intricate. Phil imagined slipping his fingers down, right in between Dan’s, where the gravity pulled.

He didn’t look up from their hands, he couldn’t, fearing Dan would find something neither of them wanted to confront.

Instead, he cautiously turned Dan’s palm over. He pressed the damp paper towel to his papery skin, which had been cut open, the little slits washed in a reddy mud. Phil held the wet material there, compressing it down and soaking up the unwanted remnants from the field. The slash was a rough incision that went along the beginning of his first finger to the end of his hand.

When Phil plucked together enough courage to look up, Dan’s face was a compact structure of discomfort.

“I’m sorry,” Phil said. “We just need to clean them up.”

“I know,” Dan sucked in the stuffy air from the cubicle.

Phil squeezed the paper towel and watched droplets of moisture fall down onto the sore skin. 

“It doesn’t look too bad,” he examined. “Is there a first aid-kit anywhere?”

Dan shook his head. “Only in Miss Leer’s office. And don’t even think about asking her.”

Phil didn’t argue. His silence was enough to see he wasn’t going to challenge the statement. He ran his thumb over the softness of Dan’s hand and released it with a tough hesitance.

“I think that should be okay. There’s no more dirt, or anything that could infect it—What else hurts?”

“My ankles hurt so bad,” Dan said, already removing his shoes and pulling his socks down enough for Phil to see the profound splotches of pain.

“Can you clean it up for me?” he craned his neck upwards.

Phil knelt down on the bathroom floor and scrutinised the gashes.

“It doesn’t look like there’s any dirt in there, but it is cut open. You probably need them bandaging up, or at least protected from your socks and shoes,” Phil chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know what I can do.”

“Can you just—” The pause was stifling. “Use something else? Paper towels?”

“Dan, that isn’t going to work.”

“Yes, it is, it will—Look,” Dan whirled into a frantic movement, collecting the discarded towels and pressing them against his raw ankles, using both hands. He winced once, twice, then a third time, before Phil shook his head and ripped the paper towels from his skin. Dan’s face flashed.

“Phil!”

“You aren’t helping anything doing that! Stop it, you’re just hurting yourself,” Phil’s voice was sharper than before, and a flow of infliction ran in an undercurrent in his tone. “You need a bandage, Dan, you can’t just use that.”

“We don’t have any bandages, Phil. And you're making it worse, that _hurt_ ,” Dan’s eyes were watering again, colour surrounding the expanding maroon in his dilated pupils.

Two heavy smacks of guilt thudded against Phil’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” he weakly apologised, knowing it wasn’t really any use to anybody. He leaned forward and dropped the rumpled towels into the little bin.

“I don’t want to tell Miss Leer,” Dan repeated, a little differently this time and much more perceptible.

“Why not?” Phil thought his answer was long overdue.

“Because I’m already a burden on her, with the fostering and the trouble I keep racking up. You heard how she spoke to me last week when she caught us outside,” Dan closed his eyes, breathed out and opened them again. “I don’t think you understand, Phil. This place, it’s my home. I’ve been here for so long, I don’t know anywhere else. But I feel like I don’t belong here. I feel like everyone’s sick of me, like I just mess everything up. I was wrapped in a bundle of bad luck when I was born, that’s what Miss Leer said. And it’s the worst feeling in the world to feel like you don’t belong, it really is.”

Phil tried to hold onto all those words, to capture them in his memory and lock them in his heart behind metal gates. The prolonged silence that settled for a while after Dan’s voice had faded was like a record stuck, a crackling sound echoing through the patterns of nothing.

The world continued to move but for them, everything was still. 

Dan was staring down at his shoes and Phil didn't quite know what to say. He leant his hand against the bathroom door and then pulled it back, twisting his fingers in his muddy jacket pockets.

“You do belong,” he said, so timid it was almost unsure. “Somewhere. You just probably haven’t found it yet.”

“Well,” Dan released a breath. “Have you?”

“Found where I belong?”

Dan nodded.

Phil thought for a moment. His uncle coruscated at the front of his mind in a flash of muddling doubt. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“No? What about with your uncle and Martyn? Isn’t that home for you?” Dan’s voice was suspecting and vulnerable. He was watching Phil, his eyes cloudy with moisture, his hair messy on his head, his skin grubby from the mud.

“Yeah,” Phil rocked back once on his heels. For some reason, he felt guilty for admitting it. “Yeah, probably. I suppose it is.”

Dan’s voice was crabbed. “I bet you miss him, don’t you?”

Something about his expression made the words hard for Phil to form, “It’s just—Well, we always got along so good.”

“Have you always lived with him?”

“No. I lived with my grandparents for a long time, until last year. But things got hard for them because they were getting older and weaker and so my uncle stepped in.”

“Oh,” Dan said. “What about your parents?”

“Never knew them.”

“You always lived with your grandparents?” Dan asked again and Phil nodded, said, “For as long as I can remember, anyway.”

“That must’ve been great. I hardly ever got to see my grandparents.”

“It was great,” Phil concurred. “They were both really lovely and, like, I couldn’t miss my parents or anything because I never knew who they were.”

Dan was silent for the longest time, and then he said, “Are you close with Martyn?”

“Yeah, really close,” Phil found some peace from the wars of reality at Martyn’s sudden advent into the conversation. “He’s a brilliant brother and he’s always been there for me. Of course we argue—I mean, we do that a lot—but it’s never anything bad. It’s just nice to have someone there, you know? If things ever go wrong.”

Dan’s breathing grew slightly unsteady as he managed a move of his head. He looked as though he’d been attacked by the closing statement, like they’d stabbed little needles into his veins and drew blood as evidence.

“Dan,” Phil whispered, low. This boy was such a mess and there wasn’t a cord of hope within reach for either of them to grab onto.

“You have someone, too. You have me,” Phil struggled, throat tight. “I’m here for you now, okay? I’m not going to leave.”

“You are, though. You’re going to leave soon and I’m going to be left all by myself again—”

“I won’t leave you,” Phil rambled. “You can come with me.”

Dan sighed, forceful and heavy. “What are you talking about, Phil?”

“My uncle wouldn’t mind. Honestly. He’d love you.”

“He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be able to manage me, just like everyone else,” Dan’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “And you can’t just bring me with you. That’s not how it works. We’d get in trouble.”

“It might work, if we—”

“Phil, stop. It would never work. This friend I had once—he said the same thing. He said he’d take me with him if he left before I did, but he didn't. Because you can’t,” he trembled around the words. “People just don’t like me the way they like other kids.”

“I like you,” Phil urged.

Dan’s lips turned at the corners and his eyes softened.

“You don’t count, mate.”

Phil’s head was hurting so much, a rhythmic thudding right there in his temples. He could feel the world spinning when he stared into Dan’s eyes and tried to string up the threads all running stray. He let his eyes wander backwards fairly quickly, to the bathroom wall. He’d forgotten what it felt like to understand.

Neither of them said another word until Dan’s skin was flawed with deep marks, his ankles ineluctably sore, his body weak. Phil felt like he’d done something wrong as they departed the bathrooms, heading for the showers. Dan held the ball under his arm, limping. They slipped away behind two doors to wash, and silence punctured in Phil’s ears. 

He stood for a moment, gathering himself. He was pressed straight against the wood, slick and tall, shoulders back. His mind perished of thoughts, crumbling like the significance of a statute over time; the stone chipping away, the colour fading. He stripped down from his grimy clothes as the water ran warm, spluttering down and soaking condensation into the air, until everything was hot and clammy.

When he finally stepped beneath the rushing water, his clothes a disheveled pile of discolouration on the floor, it ran hot. He reached for the soap in an attempt to cleanse himself of everything that had happened. Harrison’s face and Sammy’s name were tucked away behind moisture and regurgitating drains and _beautiful_ and _boyfriend_ and he scrubbed at the skin of his hands, down the crevices of his little fingers until they were red raw.

Phil couldn’t wash Dan from himself, not for as long as he tried. He was stuck to him, clinging on like the sun to black material.

And Phil didn’t want him to let go. He didn’t want him to have to let go. Dan wasn’t like anybody he’d ever met before; he was lonely, homesick, unsure of where he belonged in the world. They’d tangled themselves together, it felt like, tied up all their loose ends so that they weren’t loose anymore.

Back in reality, it was getting onto lunchtime, just an hour or two, but Phil wasn’t hungry. Not in the slightest. His half-eaten breakfast was still sloshing around in his stomach, bubbling nausea up in his throat. 

The soap had slipped from his fingers and hit the shower floor with a thud. He ached in a stinging depth as he leant against the wall and pictured Dan trying to wash the mud from himself with his minor OCD. His brown hair damp and tangled, his eyelashes wet, his tanned skin brushed with lumps of soap. Phil was reminded of the feeling of their hands together, that burst of electrocution like flashes of light across a grey sky.

_Queer._

Phil felt everything, and then he felt nothing at all.

He turned the water off and swallowed the vile taste of sickness in the back of his throat. The words they’d spoken were heavy on his shoulders as he climbed out onto the tiles, but the words they hadn't were even heavier.

><

Phil met Dan back in the bedroom around a half hour later. Everything was quiet, stilted, lacking the usual company of distant conversation since everybody was outside, making the most of the decent weather. Phil couldn’t think of anything worse.

Dan was stood over his bed, rubbing his hair with a fluffy, white towel. He was dressed in fresh clothes that hung loosely on his body and covered the cleaned cuts and bruises carelessly dotted around. Somehow, Phil could still see them. 

Dan’s skin looked damp, warm, and there was a redness on the back of his neck from the power of the water bursting out against it. 

Phil managed to pass around to his bed without being noticed. In his arms, he carried his collection of dirty clothing.

Dan stopped rubbing his hair and ran a hand through it, eyes flickering over, then continued again.

“You okay?” Phil spoke. Dan’s eyes were puffy and wet and there was no doubt he’d been crying again. 

“Yeah,” his voice weighed down the atmosphere. “Are you?”

“Alright.”

Dan dropped the wet towel on his bedsheets and a long puff of air shivered out of his lips before he looked over at Phil. The water had ruffled his hair, made it really curly, and it looped in perfect rings around his face. Phil’s skin prickled, fingertips tingled.

“What?”

Phil blinked. “Hhm?”

“You were staring,” Dan pointed out.

“Oh,” Phil hadn’t even realised. “It’s just—Well, your hair goes proper curly when you wash it, doesn’t it?”

Dan hummed. “It’s always been a bit wavy.”

“A lot wavy.”

Dan’s smile was small and thin, carefully appearing and then fading in the space of a moment.

“I’ll take those down to the wash for you in a minute,” he said to the dirty clothes on Phil's bed. “You know, so Miss Leer doesn’t find them up here later when she does the washing and ask any questions.”

Phil nodded, nestling down on his pillow. He wondered if there’d be any more consequences for them if she were to ever find out, or if Harrison would get into trouble. He’d probably find a way to squirm his way out of it.

On the bedside table, Phil’d left his book, and he reached for it carefully across the distance.

“It’s lunch soon.”

Phil found a tear at the top corner of the book, mumbling, “I’m not hungry.”

“Neither am I,” Dan admitted, quieter. Through the open pages, Phil made him out, watching him from the other side of his bed.

“Can we just, like, stay up here for a bit? Read, maybe? I don’t want to be around them all,” Dan sounded so puny and vulnerable and Phil saw the change in his eyes, felt the push against his chest.

“Of course,” he whispered back. He couldn’t think of anything better. It was probably the best idea either of them had had since they’d met.

Sunlight slanted in through the open curtains and onto Dan’s face, across the bridge of his nose and weakly into his eyes. Dust was awoken in the direct pathway from the window to the boy, along the floorboards and over the bedsheets and up through thin air.

The sky was fading to a deceiving blue. Bluer than it had been in a long time, bluer than Phil could ever remember.

“I’ll be back in a second,” Dan gathered their clothes together in his hold and walked out of the room. Phil didn’t hear the words until the door had clasped shut behind him, and he felt like crying.

><

It would be a lie to say that the rest of the day passed quickly. Much like a storm, it passed slow when you wanted it to disappear so you had half a chance at pretending it never existed at all. But the afternoon was sluggish and lazy and clung onto a tendency of stubbornness.

Phil read with Dan all day, as the sky turned from blue to grey to orange and then slowly began to darken, slipping away in clips and pieces to nothing. Somewhere between the printed letters on the murky pages, Phil found himself on Dan’s bed, with his legs across his knees.

Despite their vicinity, Dan was significantly quiet, speaking only to answer Phil’s questions or to read _The Giving Tree_ aloud as it neared the climax of the afternoon. Phil sat at the end of the bed, looking up at Dan, getting a bit tangled up in the way his lips moved on the pronunciation of words. Finishing each sentence, he’d catch Phil’s gaze and a shadow of something would cast across his face, softening his eyes and his smile until he forced his divided attention back down to the book. It was like a silent, secreted conversation, constructed just for them.

“And the tree was happy,” Dan read, voice small and sheltered. Phil didn’t know why it visited so suddenly at that, but an urge to say sorry and hug him really tight stuttered its way up his throat.

_And the tree was happy._

The final breaks of light fell sleepily in through the window as the story came to a close. Dan’s voice dwindled away to nothing and he closed the book, handing it back to Phil because apparently it was his, even though it wasn’t. They shared a final smile that’s hazy implication hung in the air moments after it was gone.

They ate dinner bewitched by silence. It had began to dawn on Phil that the quieter he was, or Dan was, the louder the world worked. It was difficult to distinguish the volume of human life when he spoke, since it all seemed to get caught up in his own voice. And as much as he liked how poetic that all was, he didn't like Dan’s silence. He was quite fond of his voice, as a matter of fact.

“You’re quiet,” he eventually addressed, eyeing the way Dan was leant against his hand and playing a game with his fork in his food.

Dan looked up, slowing the steady movement of his wrist. “Am I?”

Imprints of purple were smudged like ink beneath his eyelids, matching the bruising that was beginning to pale around the rest of his body.

Phil nodded.

“Sorry,” he said quietly. “Just thinking a lot. My head’s a bit busy, is all.”

“What’re you thinking about?” Phil put his cutlery down with a light clink.

“Stuff,” The answer was painfully vague.

“Oh, yeah?” Phil edged. “What kind-of stuff?”

Dan’s words often made an attempt at deceiving Phil, but the look of helplessness never faded from his little face, never managed to skip past Phil’s recognition. Regardless of the lies that chugged from his mouth, a promise of honesty remained sprinkled over his expressions.

“Like, the _you’re leaving_ kind-of stuff,” Something pulled down Dan’s voice, tearing all the fragments into strips and dropping them to the floor.

And Phil thought _oh, this again_ because he just couldn’t help it. This particular topic seemed to be bothering Dan an awful lot, playing on his mind more than it should’ve been. He looked so nervous and frightened, like he was awaiting a fate that he couldn’t reform. And he was. Phil was going to leave and Dan was going to be on his own and that made everything that could be potentially said to calm him worth nothing. The ending would be the same, regardless of the plot.

“I’m sorry,” Phil said, uncertainty twisting up his voice. “I just—I don’t know how I can help. My uncle really wouldn’t mind if you came, I promise he—”

“Phil, I can’t come with you. You know I can’t,” Dan’s voice threatened to break. He looked so weak and vulnerable and it made Phil want to cry because he knew, of course he knew he couldn't come with him. He wanted to say something else, wanted to comfort Dan somehow but nothing he could ever say would make anything okay anymore. At least, that’s what it felt like. 

So his hand found Dan’s knee under the table and he rested his fingers atop of the fabric of his trousers, fingers brushing over the bone just lightly.

Phil watched Dan carefully, as he flinched and snapped his head up, eyes on fire. His shoulders tensed back and his body stiffed rigid and motionless. He stole quick glances around the room with a face of painted fear and a breath caught in the back of his throat. Phil squeezed down on his knee, as if to say _don’t be scared_ , and hoped it was enough.

Dan didn’t look away from him, it was like he couldn’t. He had scoured every part of Phil’s face, finding comfort from the rest of the world in his blue eyes.

And—

And Phil felt like every cloud in the sky was going to cascade down in a sea of suffocating white. He’d clearly overstepped some sort of unspoken boundary, clearly done something he shouldn't have. But there was some sort of magnetic pull (and something metal) keeping his hand there on Dan’s knee. His fingers itched, bruised and burned because they shouldn't be there but somewhere amongst that urging intensity to remove his hand, there was a promise of safety. Security. He’d never felt it before with Dan—with anyone—so the sensation was excellently unknown.

Phil squeezed Dan’s knee again and it didn’t say anything but _I’m sorry_ as he whispered, “You know I’d take you with me if I could.”

“Thanks, mate,” Dan was looking down at his leg, making it entirely obvious that there was a secret there waiting to be seen.

That probably should’ve scared Phil into pulling his hand away but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Dan smelt of coconut shampoo and coming home and he was so, so lovely. Phil had never liked anybody so much before in his life.

“Have you finished reading _Bridge to Terbitihia_?”

The normality of the question shocked Phil and he coughed hard before saying, “Nearly.”

Dan rolled his eyes and mumbled, “Slow reader,” under his breath.

“Hey!” Phil nudged his elbow into his side and there was an breath of ease, a blanket of _this is how it’s supposed to be._ Dan’s eyes were little eruptions of fire and brimstone, the soft brown like the wood being swallowed by the flames.

Dinner continued on in a pleasant silence. Phil’s hand remained on Dan’s knee until they stood, when he tugged it away and gathered his plate. 

Clearing up, Dan looked at him like he was the only person he’d ever laid eyes on, cheek indented with his dimple. He was limping around everywhere from the cuts on his ankles. Just before they headed to bed, he carried a stack of plates to where Phil was stood and pressed his hand against the small of his back, twisting the fabric of his shirt and giving him a delicate smile.

And then he quickly pulled his hand away and said, “We should probably head to bed,” like the soft touch hadn’t even happened.

Phil quietly agreed and followed him out of the cafeteria. As they mounted the creaking stairs, he realised he had a very sensitive bundle of nerves at the bottom of his spine.

><

For the most part, the next two weeks passed in a haze. Dan and Phil spent a lot of afternoons doing homework together, never failing to hand it in on time. They partnered up together for a literary project on children’s books and won. Moderately easily, actually. Mr. Adams took quite the shine to Phil, too, and English was suddenly his favourite lesson. It felt like it always had been.

Harrison didn’t come anywhere near hurting Dan in the way he had done out on the field again, but quite often found humour in cracking subtle jokes from across the room. Some hurt more than others. Some were forgotten in a brush of their fingers while some inflicted bruises that couldn’t be seen.

Phil watched the ones littering Dan’s skin fade over the course of the time period, until they disappeared almost completely. Despite this, the scars on his arms remained, like permanent unanswered questions.

_Queer. Fags._

Phil didn’t have the heart to ask Dan what either of those words meant but the feeling that continued to weigh them down stayed, that never fading.

Nearing towards Friday, Phil began to wonder where his uncle was. He couldn’t find the words to question Dan or even Martyn (who really had been spending too much time with all the older guys), in fear of a response. He didn’t want to ask if his uncle was ever coming back because somewhere, deep inside of him, he already knew the answer. And he decided he’d much rather save his unnecessary humiliation for some other time.

However, he tried not to let such negativity tear chunks out of the constant easiness in his mood. Dan’s football skills were improving greatly, he had finished all of his _Winnie The Pooh_ books and pride had become a common feeling for Phil.

As a pair, they were growing significantly closer. So close that Phil developed a habit of counting the boy's breaths and could feel his heartbeat from metres away (although he was never far). The transition from friends to best friends came slow, between school projects and muddy fields and a place to call home. It wasn’t spoken, wasn’t said aloud, for maybe it’s less real if it ever is. But there came a time when Dan was Phil’s best friend, and Phil was certainly Dan’s.

And to have a best friend, Phil found, was the most amazing thing in the world. He had learnt how to describe happiness, learnt why the fireflies were so attracted to light. Everything about Dan made Phil glow, so bright he overshadowed the darkness of words like _queer_ and _fags_ , words he didn’t have to define to feel the full force of.

It was a late Sunday evening (early Monday morning) when Phil finally finished reading _Bridge to Terbitihia._ As the sun faded in the distance, Phil choked himself up over a dead book character, soaking his pillow in an ocean of salty tears. He lay on his side, trying to stifle and console himself rather pointlessly.

The bed creaked and dipped down and Phil turned, squinting through the lack of light and the moisture in his eyes. Dan was sitting on his feet and settling his body atop of the covers. Phil rested his head back down on the pillow and sniffed, rubbing his wet eyes.

“Phil,” Dan whispered carefully.

Phil lifted his head back up. Dan’s figure was a prominent shape in the inky pool of darkness, but it wasn’t light enough to make out even his face. Phil thought that maybe if he could find his eyes, he'd feel a little bit better.

“Leslie—” Phil’s voice cracked. “Why did she have to—Why couldn’t she just have—”

“Shh, shh,” Dan hushed, and he dipped his head closer to Phil. “It’s okay, mate, don’t cry. It’s just a book—”

“It’s not,” Phil insisted, voice splintering on the words. He slapped Dan’s arm weakly, having no energy in the mannerism but certainly in his mind. “Why did you make me read that?”

“I’m sorry,” Dan apologised, feeble.

Phil brought his hands to his face and cried harder, little body racked with whimpers and an intense feeling of sorrow.

“Hey, hey,” Dan’s face was so close to his own that he could feel the breath on his lips. “Come here, yeah? I want to show you something.”

Dan climbed out of the bed with a light patter of his bare feet against the floor and Phil felt so lost all of a sudden, reaching his fingers out and catching the air.

“Dan, what are you doing? It’s the middle of the night—”

“Get up. It’s good, I promise.”

“Stop promising me things when I’m half asleep,” Phil grumbled, thinking back to when they’d just met and were taking that stupid tray back. He removed the sheets from his body and dropped down onto the floor, socks on cold wood.

“You’re grumpy when you’re sad,” There was a smile in Dan’s voice and quite surely on his lips, teasing.

“Shut up,” Phil pushed his shoulder and used his other hand to brush the wetness from his eyelashes. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere,” Dan dragged the word out long enough for a spark of intrigue to burst in Phil’s stomach.

He sniffed again. “I don’t like secrets.”

“Just come on,” Dan caught his wrist through the darkness and gave it a tug. The sensation of hot skin against cold made Phil’s head spin, and he gripped on the post of his bed to steady himself for a moment. Then he gathered back the sanity Dan’s touch had ushered away and headed with him through the room.

><

As Phil stood outside the bedroom door with Dan, he had the strongest sense of déjà-vu. Dan slipped against the wall of the hallway and gestured for Phil to move in the same direction. He took a few steps forward, and a floorboard creaked.

“Phil,” Dan pressed gently at his disruption of the night's stillness.

Phil swallowed, hard. He held his breath. “Sorry.”

Dan shuffled forward, continuing on. Phil followed closely, and once he’d stepped off the groaning board, he scurried along the wall to reach where Dan was now standing. In the very dim light, Phil saw that they were nearing the end of the hallway, and that Dan had stopped. His hand was clasped over a door handle.

“Dan,” Phil’s heart was in his throat and he couldn't swallow it back down. “What are you doing?”

He couldn’t see Dan’s face from where he stood behind him, but he watched the way his shoulders shifted when he leant forward and cracked the door open. He fell inside so quietly Phil wouldn’t have even known, had he not been watching him.

This time, he couldn’t form Dan’s name—he figured it was pointless anyway—and instead just followed through the door as if his fate was written and sealed with the same red ink as Dan’s was.

Much to Phil’s surprise, the door wasn’t a bedroom at all. In fact, it was more like a cupboard. In the centre was a winding staircase that Dan was climbing, taking each step cautiously. Phil’s palms were clammy, jaw tight and breathing controlled as he carried himself up each step, moving around the corners and its set structure until he found Dan at the top.

There, he saw another door. Dan opened it like it wasn't the first time, and weak light spilled in onto their faces. Phil put his hand up over his eyes in defence against the sudden (admittedly faint, but surprising nevertheless) brightness.

“Phil,” Dan called from an obvious distance, voice shockingly loud. “Come in here.”

Phil rushed into the room, set on scolding Dan for talking so loudly and probably giving their position away to the rest of the sleeping orphanage. But his intentions faded at the sight of the room. 

Laid out much like a treehouse, or a den, it was small and quaint, and there were a collection of softly whispered secrets pushed into the dusty corners. Blankets were scattered carelessly along the wooden panelling, left as though somebody had been sleeping on them. It reminded Phil of an unmade bed, a token of sleep.

There was a window in the centre of the room, placed so low you could see outside from laying down on the floor. The lack of blinds or curtains meant that it was significantly brighter, everything visible. It took Phil’s eyes a few seconds to adjust and to take it all in.

During these few moments, Dan settled himself with a blanket draped over his legs and when he patted the floor beside him, Phil moved to sit down.

“What is this place?” he whispered, smitten with awe.

“It’s cool, right?” Dan smiled fondly, looking around the room, then moving back to Phil’s interested face. “It’s my place. Make yourself at home.”

Phil pushed the a blanket over his feet. There was something about this room, something reposeful and melodic and it was kind-of hard to explain really, but it felt safe. Like it was the only place in the world.

“Your place?”

Dan nodded. “Nobody ever comes up here. A few years back, one of Harrison’s friends spread a rumour that there was a ghost and that’s why it was always left alone. Obviously, that wasn’t true,” Dan smiled. “It’s just a supply closet that the staff have never really need used. And I wasn’t stupid enough to believe any different, so I came up here and made this place. Put blankets down and fixed a lightbulb up there.”

Phil followed Dan’s eyes directly upwards. An unlit lightbulb hung down from the centre of the ceiling. Phil imagined a younger Dan fiddling with electric cables, all flashes and crackling and danger.

“Does it work?” Phil asked and Dan nodded, quick. 

“Course,” he said. “Never use it, though. It’s too bright up here already.”

“Yeah,” Phil glanced out the window. He was quiet for an instance while his mind ran and then he whispered, “Are you sure there isn’t a ghost?”

Dan laughed softly, face pushing up into a smile. “Positive, mate. And even if there was, we’d be friends. He doesn’t seem to mind me being up here.”

Outside, the sky was blanching from a heavy black to a burning tangerine. The first shimmers of the morning sun were flickering across the scene and Dan looked so lovely before the window, skin tanned and hair sticking out at the sides. Phil wanted to say see, you do belong. You belong with the sun and the sky and everything beautiful in between. He probably should’ve done.

“It’s safe, Phil,” Dan spoke again, as though he’d been waiting for a response. “I promise.”

“You and your promises,” Phil shook his head, voice benign and faint. A floorboard creaked somewhere in the wake of movement and Phil’s attention triggered.

“Don’t worry, that’ll just be Old Abbott,” Dan said on his sudden movement. “The only real bad thing about this place is that you can hear everything that happens. But, then again, I suppose that can be a good thing, too.”

“How?”

“Well, you’ll never get caught. If you hear somebody walking around, you don’t leave until you’re sure they’ve gone and if you hear somebody making their way up here,” Dan paused. “You have time to jump out the window.”

“You said nobody came up here,” Phil pointed, slight accusation spilling through his tone.

Dan shook his head. “They don’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Nobody would ever need to,” Dan’s smile was slight but reassuring, easy on his lips.

There was a beat of silence and then he quietly noted:

“You’ve stopped crying.”

Phil felt a burst of realisation and sniffed, instinctively. He had, although everything in him was still sore, the ins and out of the book soaked through under his skin. 

“I'm still sad,” Phil said, pouting as if to prove a point he’d forgotten about making.

“Sorry, but I really didn’t think it’d upset you that much,” Dan apologised. A look of genuine fascination fluttered over his face in sprinkles of golden sunlight. “Why’d you find it so sad?”

“I don’t know. Because she just—You know, and it was a bit of a shock. She left so much behind and had so much to live for.”

“I suppose,” Dan agreed quietly. “He lost her, too.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that too. That was really sad,” Phil was silent for an expansion of a few seconds, before looking over at Dan and whispering, “He loved her, didn’t he?”

“I’m pretty sure. That was the worst part for me. Like, they were best friends and he loved her and—I don’t know, Phil,” Dan took a hard breath. “We live alone and we die alone. Sometimes we meet people that make us think otherwise.”

Phil sat there and watched the words spill out of the boy like he was an eighty-year-old man who had done his time on this earth, who had lived and died and cried and lied and knew the exact places where the sky bent, where the earth curled. Like he had the life of another trapped inside of him and it was clawing to get out, tearing down the walls and slipping through the cracks from the places that had already started to crumble.

“Your uncle hasn’t come back yet,” Eventually, Dan said something else. It was off topic, maybe, but it was something. It was after realising Phil wasn’t going to answer his last statement, after realising he’d lost Phil to a sea of words, a web of sentences.

Phil looked out the window. “No, he hasn’t.”

“Yeah, do you know, um—Do you know when he’s coming to get you?” He probably didn’t intend for it to, but the question mocked in Phil’s ears. Like a bitter I told you so, a sharp arrogance. It made Phil feel small and humiliated and he was obviously exaggerating the emotion, but it hurt nevertheless. 

“He is coming back,” Phil said, determined and completely resolute.

Dan’s smile was soft but unsure. “I know he is. I just wondered when because it’s been a while since you got here. Not that I want you to leave, obviously, just—I’ll miss you and—Well, we’ve been over this. You get it, I’m sure. I don’t want you to go, but I bet you want to.”

“Not at all. Why would I?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

And, bizarrely, as the question hung loosely in the air, all Phil could conjure up as a half-sane answer was you.

“I’ll miss you—I’ll miss you, _too_ ,” he said quickly, because he hadn’t said it back last time. “If I go before you. You never know, do you? You could always find somewhere before my uncle gets back for me.”

Dan laughed, he actually laughed, as though just the idea was farcical enough to carry humour along with it. “I doubt that, mate,” he said. “I’ll be here until I’m as old as Old Abbott.”

And Phil just smiled because he didn’t have anything to say. This boy was lost and cynical and so hopelessly obsolete. It was as though somebody had taken a pair of scissors and cut through every wire of hope connecting him all together. He’d been failed, pushed away into a cupboard labelled _lost property_ and somebody had thrown away the key.

This sense of defeat was present in everything he did, everything he’d ever done, and Phil had the horrible sense that he was breaking some sort of rule just thinking the way he was because he wasn’t supposed to care about him, wasn't supposed to care about boys like Dan. Nobody was supposed to care about boys like Dan.

“You’re the only one that knows about this place.”

Phil blinked away the cloud of distance in his eyes and looked at Dan, saying, “You’ve never told anyone else?”

Dan shook his head. “Never.”

“Why not?” Phil didn’t know if the flattery was present on his face and in his voice, filling in all the empty gaps.

“I don’t know. It’s just always been my place. A bit like a secret really. That’s cheesy, isn’t it?” Dan grinned, sitting up on his feet. “True, though. It’s always been mine to keep. Yours now, too.“

“I’m good with secrets,” Phil looked right into his eyes, plucking up a courage he’d missed the existence of. “I’ll never tell anyone.”

“Promise?” Dan’s answer was so expected, Phil was saying his next sentence before he’d even pushed the last word out into the thin air. 

“Promise. Cross my heart and hope to die,” Phil drew a pattern with his finger just over that place in his chest where his heart fluttered, thudding a beat of _I’ll keep whatever secret you ask for as long as it counts for anything._

><

It was a little while later when they descended back down the stairs and snuck along the hallway to the room. Phil’s chest felt heavy but significantly weak, a signification of his fatigue.

Everything was still in the bedroom, untouched. Darkness swallowed up the pair as they shuffled through noiselessly. Harrison’s body was but a curve of a silhouette, no sharper than the row of others. Phil’s feet moved strategically along the panelling until he found his bed, where his pace then slowed, and he squinted his eyes.

There was somebody in the bed next to his. Not Dan’s, but on the opposite side. Where Martyn had once slept.

It was difficult to make him out really, he was just a shape in a breath of nothingness, but he looked fairly small. He had brown hair that shared a string of similarities to Dan’s and his face was soft, washed out between the whiteness of the pillow. At the bedside, there were two suitcases.

“Who’s that?” Dan’s breath fanned against the back of Phil’s neck, falling in light shudders down his spine.

“Maybe he’s new,” Phil whispered back.

“Is he asleep?” Dan crept forward so that he was within reach of the boy. He leant his head down, pushing their faces into close proximity.

“Dan,” Phil pressed, swimming in his nerves. “Don’t do that. He could wake up—He’s asleep, okay? Let him sleep. Just go to bed.”

“I was just checking,” Dan shuffled back across the floor, obedient and hushed. Phil’s covers were still rumpled from his earlier slumber and tugged them over himself as he rolled onto his side, choosing to face Dan over the stranger.

Home over a hotel.

His chocolate hair was sprawled out up the pillow, messy and tousled from the carelessness of past dreaming. Through the darkness, Phil could just make out the precision of his lips and the delicacy of his sleepy smile. He looked like an angel.

_Queer._

“See you in the morning,” Dan breathed the words through a yawn.

Phil’s heart was doing backflips and there was a pull in his stomach between right and wrong as he replied, “Yeah,” and pulled the sheets up around his face. He closed his eyes and exhaled.

_I’ll keep whatever secret you ask for as long as it counts for anything._

><

That night, Phil dreamt of a palace in the sky, a palace where he and Dan lived, and they spent their days jumping from cloud-to-cloud with immaturity and peace swimming through their veins. They wore golden robes and ruled as kings, and nobody was there to ask questions about the looks they gave or the words they said.

Phil dreamt of a place where fear didn’t control, and his mind was gripped too tightly by a senseless fog to realise he lived in a place where it did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kind comments, you’re so lovely <3 keep them coming! How was this chapter?


	7. VII

**VII**

In the morning, Phil woke first. That hadn’t happened yet, not since he’d been here. He was accustomed to Dan waking and seeing him shuffle around the bedroom, scramble for his clothes to cover his secrets.

Today, however, he dressed first and quickly, and sat down on his bed, waiting for Dan to wake. He told himself that if he wasn’t at least moving around in the next two minutes, he’d wake the sleeping boy himself. But for now, he sat in silence with his uniform on his back and his bag on his lap.

The boy from the bed beside Phil’s had gone. He’d left his bedsheets all messy, half-slung off the edge of the frame, carelessly hanging to the floor. His pillow was still indented with a messy crevice, but he was no where to be seen.

Phil was frowning over at the bed as Dan began to stir. He turned around and watched him as he yawned and groaned, opening his eyes slowly and finding Phil on his own bed.

Dan made a sound as he pushed himself up by his elbows, voice slick with grogginess, “Morning.”

Phil smiled at him. “Morning.”

“What time is it? How long have you been awake?” he kicked his legs out from his bed and stood up, still waking as he folded his sheets neatly.

“Not long. And we aren’t late, we have time to eat,” Phil said, watching Dan as he pulled his uniform from the coat hangers in the wardrobe. Carrying the clothes in his arms, he shut the doors and moved back to his bed. 

“I’m so tired,” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. An early-morning irritation hugged defiantly to his mood. “I should’ve shown you the attic some other night. Sleep is important.”

Phil felt okay. He was reasonably tired, but equally rested. Maybe the excitement of the attic trip was still buzzing in his system, having yet to fade from his veins. It inflicted quite obviously on his demeanour.

Dan kept his back turned to Phil as he changed, like was customary. His elbows moved as he did up his buttons, then he turned, breathing out with a fresh smile that said I have nothing to hide in the most convincing way possible. He moved to pack his books in his bag, and Phil lost interest.

“Hey, Dan?”

He peered up from the floor. “Hhm?”

“That kid, in the bed next to me last night,” he paused as Dan’s eyes found the correct place in the room. “I don’t know where he is, and he hasn’t made his bed.”

“He’ll be with Miss Leer,” Dan disregarded.

“I suppose. Shall I make it for him?”

“I was going to, but since you offered,” Dan grinned, a smudge of cheekiness dancing in his tone and his smile and his dimple. Phil basked in his moment of brightness, beaming as he stood to make the bed.

Phil made a point of sorting the sheets, sliding out the creases and tucking the corners under the pillows. He stopped every time he found a flaw in the material to start over, fanning the covers up and down until they settled.

Turning around, the brown-eyed boy was shrugging his bag onto his back and a posing the question, “Ready?”

Phil nodded his head and they followed one another out of the room.

><

“I’m telling you, Phil. Mr. Adams is, like, in _love_ with you—” Dan was saying upon entering the cafeteria. “You could get away with anything.”

Mondays at the orphanage were really just bursts of colour, splats of paint. They were harlequin patterns and fragments. Explosions. Flares. Disasters, for the most part. But colourful ones. Memorable.

Everything just always seemed so much more hectic of a weekday, with masses of people scrambling around, faces flushed as they worked against the clock. Passing a table, Phil caught Martyn’s eyes, and they shared a smile that spoke all the words they hadn’t given themselves the opportunities to say. Lent was sat across from him, chewing a mouthful of cereal. He flashed Phil a full expression of recognition, which Phil managed to return because—

Well, Lent seemed alright. Phil hadn’t really had the chance to understand who he was, he hadn’t gotten anywhere near close enough, but from a distance Phil had concluded that he wasn’t too a bad. A bit eccentric, wild and in-your-face maybe but undoubtedly harmless.

After Dan and Phil had gathered food onto their trays, they ambled to find their usual seat pushed into the corner of the room, hidden away.

Phil was looking down, sorting the alignment of cereal, a carton of milk and a mug of tea when Dan spoke, “He’s in our seats.”

Phil looked up at Dan’s voice, his words, and the fact that they’d stopped moving. His eyes located their customary places and realised that Dan was, in fact, correct. He found who he was, the boy from the bed, and that he was sitting where they had sat everyday since Phil arrived.

“Let’s go talk to him,” Phil thought the suggestion sounded more rational in his head. 

“Wait—What? Phil, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I mean, he’s a stranger, he’s—”

“Dan, shut up,” Phil rolled his eyes, turning him off like a running faucet. “I was a stranger when you snuck food up for me, remember?”

Dan blinked, struggling how to defend himself against that. “Yeah, but,” he looked between Phil and the boy. “He’s weird.”

“ _I’m_ weird.”

“I know,” A smile edged over Dan’s lips, and it reflected out light into his voice. “But it’s different.”

“How is it?”

“Everything’s different with you, like—You’re different,” Dan played with the lengthy sleeves of his jumper as he stuttered through the sentence, face ever changing and words ever spilling. It was hard to make sense of him sometimes (most of the time), he was just such a complicated individual. “I don’t know, Phil, I just—I like you.”

Phil’s chest bubbled at the words. He could the pressure there between every dip in his ribs, every gaping space. He felt like something was pulling on the empty air. His smile made him feel like such an idiot; he probably looked like one, too.

“I like you too, I suppose.”

Dan bumped their shoulders together, and said, “Whatever, then. Let’s go to talk to him.”

There wasn’t much of a distance between where they were standing and where the boy was sat, nibbling at the crust of his toast. He looked fairly different, stronger in the light of the day but he wasn’t too difficult to recognise.

The pair stopped so far behind the boy that he didn’t even acknowledge they were there until Dan took a breath and confidently greeted:

“Alright, mate?”

The boy snapped up. His features were soft, inviting, smoothly scrawled.

“Hello,” he faintly greeted, touched with alarm.

“I’m, uh, I’m Dan. And this is Phil,” Dan waved his hand awkwardly in the direction of Phil, whose chest was almost pressed directly against his back. He shuffled back a step and brushed his fingers through the air in a small recognition. “We have the same room as you. Your bed is the one next to Phil’s, by the window.”

“Oh,” the boy gave a nod. “Yeah, yeah. I’m PJ.”

_PJ?_

“That’s a cool name,” Phil chirped.

“Thanks,” PJ smiled big and gaping, teeth on show. “It’s not my real name, like. That’d be weird. It’s just what I want people to call me.”

“Why?” Dan inquired, meek.

“I don’t know. Do you not like it?”

“No, he does,” Phil insisted, rushed. He sensed that PJ had been stung by the simple query and Phil was ready to protect Dan from getting himself coiled up in a mess with this boy already.

Dan nodded in slight agreement. “I do. I think it’s great—different. Different is good, mate.”

“Yeah, I think so, too,” PJ pushed himself closer to the wall then. “Do you guys want to sit down and eat? You have school today, right?”

“Right,” Phil was following Dan’s path of not mentioning these were actually their seats. It didn’t seem to matter much as they sat down and dropped their trays onto the table’s surface. Phil cracked open his carton of milk and poured it slowly over his cereal.

Phil wondered why Dan had been so adamant to make a friend in him, when he seemed so determinedly detached from PJ. There was an ocean between the three of them; Dan’s leg was brushing against Phil’s from the proximity that they were sat, winding and fastening in the presence of the stranger, threads pulling _tighter, tighter, tighter_. There was Dan and Phil, and then there was PJ.

There was Dan and Phil, and then there was the rest of the world. Phil thought that was a bit of a credulous way of thinking.

“Do you not have school?”

PJ turned at Dan’s question and shook his head. “I only arrived last night—you probably know that. Miss Leer said she’s going to sort me some uniform out for tomorrow.”

“Ah, alright,” Dan said. “It’s not too bad of a place, is it, Phil?”

Phil shook his head. “Nope. It’s good, I’m sure you’ll like it.”

“I hope so,” PJ mumbled, tearing off a chunk of his toast and popping it in his mouth. He chewed it slowly, his eyes maundering around the room. He was strange, Phil decided. Stranger than he remembered Dan had been in their first moments together, anyway.

“Where have you come from?” Dan asked another question. It felt like he had them racked up in a tally in his head, ticking them off one-by-one.

“All over. I’ve lived almost everywhere in the UK, and in Italy.”

“Italy?”

“Yeah, I’m half-Italian.”

Dan’s steady gaze grew into wide-eyes and an open mouth, eyebrows arching upwards. He moved himself closer to PJ across the seat, interest catching him and locking him up tight, and Phil felt the loss of warmth from their distancing vicinity.

“That’s so awesome,” Dan voiced, dumbfounded. “We did about Italy in school once. What was it like? _Really_ like?”

“Oh, it’s epic. Really amazing. There’s always so much to see and it never gets boring.”

“Why are you here, then?” Phil sounded dubious, unsure of where his place was in this conversation.

“My mom died recently.”

“Oh,” he retreated in surprise. There was a staggering normality in PJ’s tone, one that suggested this almost wasn’t an inconvenience to him.

“It was a car accident. Made her really sick and stuff. She lived for a while but she wasn’t ever the same.”

“I’m sorry,” Phil said. “That’s such a shame.”

PJ just smiled, an expression of his gratitude. A manipulative silence hung over their heads, claiming them slowly. It nestled into Phil’s ears as his mind scrambled for another conversation to initiate. It had seemed so much easier with Dan, much simpler. He never had to think with him, it felt like.

“What about you guys? How long have you been here?” PJ inquired, the first to evoke something to say, and somebody on Phil’s shoulder whispered _my uncle left and I don’t think he’s coming back_ , like his subconscious had grown into a little demon and was sitting there right under his ear.

“I’ve been here a long time. Longer than a lot of people,” Dan briefed, and focused himself on Phil. “He hasn't been here too long.”

Phil shook his head, admitting. “No, just a few weeks. Coming up to a month.”

“Oh,” PJ frowned, looking rather deceived. “So you aren’t related?”

Dan laughed raucously, seizing a little hand over his mouth to manage his humour as Phil simpered stupidly from beside him.

“Course not—” Dan said, framed around a smile. “Why’d you think that?”

“You look kind-of alike, maybe. I don’t know. I guess you could be brothers.”

Dan’s eyes searched for Phil’s, between the secretive spaces in the medley of noise and life. “Phil’s my best friend,” he said, slight and reticent. The words submerged themselves into the air, and Phil let himself get tangled up in a flurry of rapture.

“Oh, you’re best mates. That’s cool. I wish I had a best mate,” PJ’s voice cut through Phil’s thoughts that were like wet ice on a road, sloshy and dangerous.

“Have you never had one?” Dan was looking at PJ like it was so much easier to look at him, as though there was nothing there to make him retreat, to frighten him. There was nothing there that he had to confront and he probably craved that, a bit of clarity. Phil did, too.

“Nope.”

“You can have Dan, if you want him,” Phil joked and Dan kicked their feet together lightly, brushing their small shoes against one another.

“Hey,” he fake pouted, arms crossing over his chest and eyes narrowing and Phil thought, _it’s okay, idiot, as if I’d give you up for anyone._

“Nah, he’s yours,” PJ smiled at that. “I want my own.”

 _He’s yours_. The words swam defiantly through Phil's chest and curled their fingers like a bandage around his heart.

“Well, we can all be friends. You seem cool,” Dan said.

“I am,” PJ assured around a smile.

“Guess we’re mates then,” Dan gazed at Phil, as if saying _this is okay, yeah?_

Phil’s lips upturned, giving him a silent yeah back. They’d settled back together, shoulders touching and feet meeting. Phil wondered if wanting Dan this close to him forever meant anything.

><

Monday passed in a kaleidoscope of boredom, detainment and anticipation. Both Dan and Phil seemed undeniably eager for the end of the day, to head back and see PJ. They’d promised him a game of footie in the pleasant weather, a little kick-about to welcome him to the orphanage.

Phil was becoming exceedingly aware of the urge to label that place home, every time the opportunity presented itself. He didn’t know whether or not that should’ve been reassuring or nerving. Although it carried a safe feeling of belonging, he felt somewhat guilty for considering a place without his uncle a place he wanted to be.

Upon arrival back from school, Dan and Phil emptied the contents of their bags out along their own designated spaces in their room. As a pair, they hadn’t gotten any homework (from Mr. Adams) but Dan had a sheet for his Math teacher. Phil promised to help him before dinner.

For now, however, they departed out onto the field, Dan carrying the ball, in search of PJ. Somewhere in the distance, Harrison was playing. You always seemed to hear him before you saw him, if that said anything about his character.

“Dan, Phil!” PJ bounded over to them, dashing out of the doors from behind. They turned in synchronisation.

“Hey, PJ,” Phil acknowledged, speaking mid-turn.

“Hello. I thought you were going ahead with the game without me.”

“As if,” Dan said. “Do you want to choose the spot?”

“Yeah, okay,” PJ’s eyes flitted around the colossal field. He began walking in a designated direction, and Dan and Phil followed shortly behind.

“Miss Leer’s sorted me some uniform,” PJ imparted them. “And I’m gonna be coming with you guys to school tomorrow.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Phil smiled, his buoyancy present.

“I hope I’m in all your lessons.”

“We’re not in the same lessons,” Dan apprised, pushing himself into the interstice of the conversation. “Phil and I, I mean.”

PJ frowned, like he couldn't quite believe it. “You’re not?”

“No. We’re in the same English class, but that’s it,” Dan’s voice still embraced a deep disappointment, even after a good few weeks. “It sucks. Still, you’ll probably be in at least one of our classes.”

“Yeah, I hope so,” PJ anticipated.

He led them to a space tucked away into a secluded corner of the field, and Dan dropped the ball onto the ground. His brown eyes found PJ, who stood before him.

“Have you played before?”

PJ nodded. “As a goalie.”

“You want to be in goal then?”

“Alright,” he agreed easily and bounded off towards the goal. Phil hurried into place, moving from foot-to-foot to keep warm. He took the proceeding moments to admire Dan, as he stood with his arms hanging gangly at his sides, cool air sweeping a cherry flush onto his cheeks. He caught Phil’s stare and held on tight, the breeze whirling around their faces in a gale of doubt.

PJ gave a shout as the game commenced, kicking the ball out towards them. Phil caught it with the side of his shoe and broke off into a run up towards the goal. He made out Dan’s figure, unfocused and beclouded, at a constant speed beside him. It seemed like his way of saying _I’m right here if you need me._

Nearing the net, Phil gave a nod towards Dan, arm pointed out, directing him. Dan bolted effortlessly into place and the ball zipped across the green, right to his feet.

“Shoot, Dan!” Phil’s voice pushed itself through the wind, loud in his ears, and Dan fired the ball into the bottom left corner. A second too late, PJ fell down onto the floor, stretched fingers just missing the scrape of the ball.

It was a quintessential strike as a result of the faultless teamwork. A laugh scampered up Phil’s throat, shocked and struck by their unity.

“God, you two are the pair,” PJ huffed from the floor, defeated. Dan was smiling, all dazzling and golden and terrifically content.

“Good, aren’t we?” he grinned, impressed. He shot Phil a look of delight and Phil couldn’t hold back on the wild grin that ate his face. Dan made his everything melt, that was the thing. He warmed him up and ignited his positivity. He was so special, even if just to Phil.

“You’re in synch,” PJ said, brushing the dirt from his shirt. “It’s actually really good. How’d you learn to play like that?”

“Phil’s been teaching me.”

“Yeah, I have,” Phil chirped, still trying to catch his breath. “It’s going well so far.”

“So are you, like, a professional? Like those ones on the TV?” PJ’s tone was clouded with uncertainty and interest.

“Not at all,” Phil laughed again. “I just know a bit. My brother taught me.”

“Oh. Is he a professional?”

“No, but he’s good,” Hazy memories of Martyn scoring goals and running laps down their uncle’s street batted through his head. “He’s probably around here somewhere. I’ll point him out to you, if you like.”

“He’s here, too?” PJ asked.

Phil nodded. It was frightening to imagine ever being parted from his brother. They were just so close, having grown beneath one another's skin, gotten all tangled together in the mess of their world. Phil loved him so much, it didn’t even need saying.

“He’s in some room with the older boys,” Dan was saying when Phil settled back to reality. “But he looks a lot like Phil, so you might recognise him. I did.”

“It must be great having a brother here,” It seemed like PJ was thinking aloud.

“It is. We’ve always been close, I’d hate to go anywhere without him,” Phil replied.

The breeze had picked up again, combing it's fingers through the trees and taking up all their fallen leaves.

“You want me to try in goal for a bit, PJ?” Dan offered.

“No, it’s fine. I think I can handle you, but it’d be better if I had some gloves,” he complained to no one in particular. 

“You don’t have any?”

He shook his head. “Might ask for some for my birthday or something.”

Phil thought that if he were to ever see this boy’s birthday, he’d save up enough to buy him some gloves.

Positioning himself back into place, PJ clapped his hands together and egged, “Show me your best, lads.”

><

Phil hated Math. He hated Math with a vigorously burning passion and today, he hated it even more because it was making him look like a right _idiot_ in front of Dan.

“I think it equals eleven,” Dan was chewing on the end of his pen, face pensive. Lines creased along his forehead and he scribbled out the number in the answer box, muttering, “No, wait, it can’t be.”

“Eleven’s right, I think,” Phil read over the question again, mind wheeling. “Yeah, it has to be. Come on, just put it.”

“I can’t just put it, Phil. My Math teacher’s really strict and she’ll probably make me do it again if I get it wrong.”

Phil groaned, rolling himself over onto his side. PJ was laying on his bed, sorting fresh books into a new bag in preparation for school.

“Hey, PJ?”

The boy glanced over and hummed.

“You any good at Math?”

He shrugged, simple. “Sort-of, I suppose. I can do some. Why? You need help?”

He crossed past Phil’s bed and fell down between them with a light bounce, onto Dan’s mattress.

“Just do the last question and tell me what you get for the answer,” Dan handed him the sheet and everything was quiet for a few moments, still. Dan sat tapping his little fingers against his knees, like he had a million things to say but didn’t know how to say them.

After it felt like lightyears had passed, PJ spoke again.

“I got eleven.”

“Okay, eleven it is,” Dan scrawled the number onto the sheet and folded it up, reaching down and slipping it into his bag.

“You all done then?”

Looking up, Dan nodded.

“Good,” PJ sighed, relived. He climbed from the bed and exaggerated, “I’m starving, I could eat a cow.”

“Alright,” Dan laughed, tickled. They filed out of the room behind the rest of the boys in a bundle, tightly compact. Second to the mornings, this was the busiest part of the day. It always seemed like every child in the orphanage was trying to squeeze down the hallways and the staircases, through the reception and into the cafeteria.

Phil felt like he could breath again as he grabbed a plate and began to pile food up high. Of course, it wasn’t ever the nicest cuisine in the world, but it was exceptionally satisfying after an afternoon of hunger and Phil savoured the smell of the assortments on his plate.

Suddenly, there was a hand on his upper arm, squeezing gently. Phil spun to Dan’s face.

“Want to go up to the attic again tonight?” he murmured, suppressed by the noise.

“Okay—yeah, okay,” Phil said, without a moment of doubt or consideration.

Dan’s lips curled at the corners, strung up by happiness as he released Phil’s arm. He slipped by, moving to gather some food for himself and Phil felt sparks stuttering down to his wrist like Dan’s touched had charged something under his skin.

_Queer._

><

PJ was a heavy sleeper. Phil learned that that night as he and Dan spoke stifled sentences and clambered out of their beds, floorboards creaking loudly right beside where their new friend lay. He was motionless, eyes closed, mouth open. Phil imagined him running through fields or jumping from clouds, cushioning himself in the soft texture.

“Get your walkie talkie,” Dan pushed the words through the night. Phil took the little device from its place still beneath his pillow and hugged it to his chest. The pair followed the same path as the night before and, this time, Phil avoided that one irritable panel. They went up the steps and Dan clasped the door shut before curling himself down beside Phil, safe between the blankets and his best friend.

“Why’d you ask me to bring this?” Phil asked him, holding the walkie talkie up.

“For safety precautions, Philly,” he smiled.

Phil’s entire body tingled at the silly, little name and he smiled big as he said, “What makes it any less safe than last night?”

Dan shrugged, light dancing around the lift in his shoulders. “I don’t know how suspicious PJ can get. He might follow us up here.”

Phil glanced at the door. “I’m sure he won’t,” he said. “He didn’t even wake up.”

“I know, but if he does and we aren’t in bed then he might come looking. One day, we’re gonna have to use these things,” There was some hope in Dan’s voice.

“Not today though. We’ll be okay,” Phil promised. He had the strangest feeling that it wouldn't be the last time he’d say the words.

“Course,” Dan smiled, and it settled the bubble of uncertainty trying to suffocate them.

Phil traced his fingertips down along all the sharp edges of the walkie talkie in his lap. There was a bit of tape that curled around the side and Phil turned the device over, intrigued. Stuck to the back was a label with _Sammy_ scrawled onto it, messy and handwritten.

_Sammy was your friend too, wasn’t he, Dan?_

“Dan?”

The boy with the brown eyes looked up.

“Who’s Sammy?” The words were spilling out of Phil’s lips and down his chin too quickly, with _no, shut up_ chasing just after, a beat too late.

Dan’s eyes fixed on the name tag attached to the walkie talkie and his lips pressed together tightly. He was deafeningly silent. Nothing. There was nothing, and it felt like the first time ever.

Phil felt every shuddering breath that fanned between them, right in his chest. Dan pulled his sleeves down forcefully like the scars on his arms spelt out this boy’s name, or something. Like they said things, dirty little secrets that a child shouldn’t have. Phil guessed that Sammy was just one of them and that he had a whole pile racked up, waiting to be told.

“Phil,” Dan swallowed. “Don’t. I—I can’t, okay? Let’s not talk about this, please—”

“Why can’t you tell me? Who was he?” Phil urged, filled with spouts of confidence and a yearn to search for what he wasn’t allowed to, thinking, _what are you so afraid of?_

“Nobody—He was nobody.”

“Dan, he must’ve been somebody.”

“Phil,” Dan’s voice shook as he squirmed on the floor, looking trapped and uncomfortable and lost. “Please, stop it. I don’t want to talk about him.”

“I’m your best friend,” Phil wanted to reach forward and wrap their hands together because it felt like that was the only way he could convince him that it was okay, this was okay, he was okay. “That means you can trust me. Forever. Why can’t you just—”

“There’s nothing to say,” Dan snatched the walkie talkie from Phil’s lap, desperate. Emotion was holding up in his face like scaffolding and it looked like he was seconds away from screaming, or bursting into tears.

“Just tell me who he was, Dan,” Phil tried to stay calm. His thoughts were racing and his blood was pumping. “Please, don’t be scared. You can trust me—it’s okay.”

“I don’t want to talk about him—I just don’t—” Dan was choked, voice cracking and breaking in all the spaces between the words.

“Dan,” Phil was trying not to let the water in Dan’s eyes stop him from breathing. He looked miserable and frightened and it all put pressure on his chest, squeezing down tightly.

Phil reached forward and curled his fingers around Dan’s wrist because that was as far as he’d ventured yet with this boy and he didn’t think he had enough courage in him to explore farther. Phil squeezed, faintly, right onto the bone and his forefinger slid up in a single trace over the warm skin.

Something dissolved behind Dan’s eyes, like he was melting or something. Phil felt so lost and so confused and he didn’t know what line he’d just crossed, what wall he’d just kicked in. He wanted to move his finger again, but what would that mean? He wanted to look up at Dan, but what would he find? And what would Dan find? The light touch seemed to calm the demons racking storms up in his head, seemed to scare them away.

“Sammy was Harrison’s brother,” Dan managed, muffled down by a restrain in his voice. “We were really good friends. For a long time, while he was here.”

“What happened to him?” Phil treaded carefully around the shattering pieces of this boy. He was trying to hold himself together, it was obvious, as pieces began to crumble and fall and he grabbed onto them, sticking them back to himself frantically.

“He left.”

“Left?” Phil inquired weakly.

“He had a foster family for a bit and then they adopted him. Harrison didn’t go with him though, obviously—”

“Why does he hate you so much?”

“I don’t know,” Dan dismissed, pouring water over Phil’s spark of interest. “Just does. I don’t know.”

Phil frowned, soft. He didn’t say anything as he looked from Dan’s eyes to the walkie talkie’s label, to this boy’s name, like he was a murder weapon or something. Dan had lidded his eyes and was leant against the wall, shoulders slumped and head down. There was a shadow drawn tightly over his face, almost as though it was protecting him from the questions and the constant pressure to answer.

He peered up then, said, “Can I ask you something?”

Phil nodded, figuring it was his turn.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” Dan asked, and Phil smiled because it was silly and childish and he wanted to hold onto the immaturity in the atmosphere and never let it go. It never felt like this, right and okay, but this was how it was supposed to be. This was what they were missing out on; this easiness.

“I don’t know,” Phil admitted. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

“No?”

Phil shook his head, feeling like he'd let him down. “I suppose not. What about you? What do you want to be?”

“An actor,” he grinned around the words. “Those people in movies and TV shows and theatres. I want to work in theatre. Broadway and stuff, all those big productions. I want to go to Hollywood and be a star.”

Phil imagined him standing, much older as a lanky and handsome young adult, blinded by flashes and voices and expensive clothes. He imagined him collecting awards in a safe glass cabinet in the suit of his secluded home.

Dan laughed suddenly, almost like Phil’s silence had led him to believe he'd let too much on, and then muttered, “It’s a bit stupid really, to be honest. It’ll probably never happen.”

“It could,” Phil said, hopeful. “You could be a success story.”

“I doubt it, mate.”

><

Coming back down to bed, a horrible silence fastened itself to the cavernous space between their bodies, the little gaps in their fingers. It looked as though PJ hadn’t moved in his bed, still hugging himself with his arms tucked in like a baby. He looked safe and content in the silhouettes of weak lighting.

Dan pressed a small goodnight into the stillness and it hung there, pushing little needles into Phil’s chest. He was restless and tense and there was something in him conflicting sleep, stirring deep in a sort-of fray. He lay for a while thinking of Sammy, giving the stranger a fictitious identity. It meant nothing in the clippings of his tired mind.

Finally, he gathered all his remnants of energy and pushed them into a closing thought of Dan’s name up in his lights, skirting the obscurity of a dream.

><

PJ’s first day at school was alright. Just alright, he’d said, when Miss Leer had stopped by to ask him. He’d been given a complicated timetable, merging between lessons alone and lessons with Phil. He had no lessons with Dan, not a single one, and Phil almost rolled his eyes when he told him. It seemed like even fate was set on leaving the poor boy behind, which was ironic, since he deserved someone more than Phil ever would.

Arriving back to the orphanage, Dan was distant. He insisted on Phil and PJ heading out for a game as he did his homework; a proposal Phil found completely abhorrent. But Dan was persistent and stubborn, promising he was fine and _please, don’t worry about me, just go out and play_ and so Phil grabbed the ball and his jacket and followed PJ out, rather begrudgingly.

“Take a man’s best friend and you’ll kill the both of them, that’s what my grandfather used to say,” PJ was saying as they walked as a pair.

Phil looked at him, moody and questioning.

“You’re a bit lost without Dan.”

“Oh,” Phil sighed, eradicating his heavy attitude. “Sorry—No, it’s just that I don’t like coming out here without him. He loves playing footie, you know.”

“He seemed okay exactly where he was to me.”

Phil responded with a light hum, looking off somewhere at the undergrowth below the opportunely hoary sky. The clouds had come together, obstructing the sky. Dan’s withdrawal had constrained Phil into a storm of unfamiliarity. He felt apathetic and dull. Monotonous.

“Are you worried about him?” PJ posed, gentle and childlike. They’d stopped right before a goalpost, white glossed with mud. 

“A bit,” Phil admitted, voice sunken. “He seems different today. Like, not himself. You know. Maybe it’s me.”

“Nothing’s happened, has it?”

 _Sammy_. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, then.”

PJ executed a couple perfect shots at the goal, then proceeded to kick it up at himself with the top of his foot. Phil sat cross-legged on the dry land, plucking strands of grass.

Suddenly, PJ halted, stopping the ball under his shoe and saying, “You proper like him, don’t you?”

Phil looked up.

“Dan. You like him a lot, I can tell—” There was a span of silence. “You wouldn’t worry about him like this if you didn’t.”

Phil looped a thread of grass around his finger, giving it a light tug. “Of course I like him,” he almost whispered, “Of course I do. He’s my best friend.”

“I wish I had someone who cared about me like that,” PJ mumbled, striking something warm in Phil as he looked down at the ball. “Do you want to play a match?”

“Yeah, alright,” Phil said, standing up and brushing his hands over his shorts.

“If you want, we can try—”

“Hey, Phil!”

Phil gaped suddenly to his right at the call, where a familiarly stout boy was approaching with a loom in his step. Harrison.

“Where’s little Danny?”

Phil didn’t know where to look, what to say or how to say it. Harrison’s shadow casting across the greenery was a threat within itself.

“He’s—Um, he’s not out today. He’s doing homework or something,” Phil dismissed, endeavouring to get the words out even half coherently.

“Oh, what a shame,” Harrison’s voice mocked stridently, before descending into silence as his eyes strayed to PJ. “Who are you?”

PJ appeared hesitant. “PJ.”

“PJ?” Harrison’s voids of silence were like the little craters in the moon. “You with Dan, too?”

PJ peered at Phil, uncertainty pitched across his face. He gazed back to Harrison and softly confessed, “Yeah.”

“God, another one. What is it with that _queer_ you find so appealing?” Harrison spat, fury blurring through his tone. “Want my advice, kids? Dump him while you can, before he gets attached.”

And, with the words fading from volume but most certainly not from impact, Harrison walked dramatically off the scene, crashing forcefully into the loudest section on the field. When PJ looked at Phil, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. A bit of both, is what he felt like.

“He’s a bit of a meanie, isn’t he?” PJ huffed, visibly nervous and stricken by the boy’s presence.

“His name’s Harrison. I really don’t like him,” Phil formed, taking a breath for what felt like the first time ever.

“Yeah . . . ” PJ chewed into his lip, rocking on his feet. “Hey, listen, is, um—is Dan—you know?”

Phil didn’t know. He gave a blank stare and hoped that was enough to get the message across.

“Is he _queer_?”

The word hit Phil with a colossal force, liked it had wounded him. Like he’d punched in the gut. It lay thick in the air, loud and inhumane. It dug right in, it really did, cracking around the edges. Phil had heard it so much, only—

Only it was different in PJ’s voice. The way he said it made Phil think it was shameful and sickening and Phil wanted to say no, even if he didn’t know what it meant. Because Dan wasn’t that, whatever it was; Dan didn’t deserve something so disgusting following him around, haunting him.

“No,” Phil blurted, eventually. What proceeded was a silence so smothering that Phil felt like somebody had their hands around his throat. He was so confused and scared and he wanted to protect Dan from this word, he wanted to protect him from this _world._

But he was getting sick of the taste of uncertainty in the back of his mouth. He was getting sick of not knowing.

(If only he knew it was better to never know anything.)

“What’s it mean?”

PJ stared right through Phil’s question, as though taken aback by the naivety. He also looked a bit like he didn’t want to answer, not because he didn’t know, but because he didn't want to say it.

“It means he likes boys. You know, likes them. If he wants to kiss them and stuff. If he’s gay,” PJ spoke. “Not that Dan’s one of them obviously. He’s not bad like that.”

“No, he’s not,” Phil could barely get it out. _Likes boys. Wants to kiss them. Gay. Bad._ The final word stuttered through his head, playing over and over and over until the outside was all hazy. _Bad. Bad. Bad_. He drew figurative lines connecting girls to boys in his head, thinking of how different suited better than similar. He thought of Dan, and these horrible things, and how Harrison had found connections between the two.

“That’s alright then,” PJ replied, but Phil didn’t hear. He heard nothing but the fading echo of bad as it rang through his ears and made everything feel small, worthless.

_Bad, bad, bad._

><

Upon returning inside for dinner, Dan had finished his homework. He tucked his book away into the front pocket of his bag, smiled like he was trying to convince somebody, and then they headed down to the cafeteria.

Dan sat through dinner bobbing his leg up and down, nerved. He was relatively quiet, driving the occasional sentence into the conversation as a response. Phil felt like he was pulling at loose ends, until—

“And that Harrison guy, God, he was huge, wasn’t he?”

“You saw Harrison?” Dan eyes flashed up to PJ, whose voice stilled in the air.

“Yeah,” PJ told him. “Tall guy? Funny face? Muscly?”

Dan nodded. It was like that was all he could manage.

“I don’t really like him,” PJ admitted. “He made fun of you and stuff, said you were queer.”

Dan’s shoulders stiffened and he looked so tragically uncomfortable the moment the words left PJ’s lips. He looked humiliated, almost. Phil caught his leg brushing with his, shaking in an apparent fear.

“Ignore him,” Dan urged. “I’m not.”

“Yeah, that’s what Phil said.”

Dan looked at Phil, like he was angry and then he was sad and then he was everything in between. Phil wanted to say sorry and he didn’t know why. He felt like he’d spent his entire life not knowing why.

><

Getting into bed that night, just before lights out, Phil conjured up enough courage to not only look at Dan, but also ask him a question.

“Are you mad at me?”

Dan’s attention poked out from a book. He stared for a moment, then shook his head and continued reading.

“Dan,” Phil said, softer.

He didn’t look up this time.

“Who are you mad at, if not me? PJ?” Nothing. “Harrison?”

“Stop it, Phil,” Dan demanded, voice harder. It shook something in Phil’s chest, trespassed into the spaces between his ribs and stung at his eyes. He wanted to cry, but refused to let Dan see. He pulled the bedsheets up to his chin and buried his face in them, completely hidden.

A moment passed. Two and then three.

“Phil,” Dan sighed, and Phil heard his bed creak in signal that he’d sat up. “Phil, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. Hey. Hey, Phil. Look at me. Are you crying?”

“No,” Phil said into the linen. His voice shook and shattered, deceiving him. He wasn’t.

“Please, don’t be upset—I’ll come over there and tickle you.”

Phil pushed his face up with a watery smile and found Dan sat against his headboard, book closed in his lap. He returned the smile from across the beds.

“Are you alright?” he asked carefully.

Phil nodded. He managed a few breaths and then, “I’m worried about you, Dan. That's all, I promise. But tell me to go away if you don’t want me to know.”

“I do want you to know. I want you to know everything, Phil, really I do,” Dan’s voice ran like there was something in it he wanted Phil to catch, something covered by falsity.

“Okay,” Phil said slowly. “How come you seemed different today? Is it because of last night?”

“It’s because of—because of _him_ , yeah.”

_Sammy._

“What about him?” Phil tread carefully around the words. “Shouldn’t I have asked? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, nothing. You never do.”

“Do you need to talk to me?” Phil tried again.

“No—” Dan gave a heavy breath and ran his little hands over his hair. “Please, Phil, just—Just figure it out. Don’t make say it.”

Phil’s mind wheeled.

“Figure what out, Dan?”

“Sammy,” the boy winced on the name. “Why he’s special and—and why Harrison hates me. Just promise you won’t make me say it.”

“I won’t,” Phil said. “I promise, I won’t.”

“Promise you’ll figure it out.”

“I promise I’ll figure it out.”

“Thank you,” Relief thundered over Dan. “It’s just that it’s . . . embarrassing and you have to try and understand because it’ll make you hate me, probably, and—”

“I won’t hate you, I could never hate you,” Phil didn’t know what this secret was, the significance of this mystery circling the lovely boy’s head, but he knew it couldn’t be bad enough to hate him.

 _How could he ever hate Dan?_ Little Dan.

“You can’t say that.”

“I can.”

People began to turn their lights off then, pretty much one-by-one, the remaining forming silhouettes on the ceiling.

“We need to get some sleep,” Dan’s voice shuddered to a hasty whisper.

“No, Dan,” Phil moved closer, hanging over the side of his bed. “Dan, wait. What is there to figure out? You told me everything.”

Phil could just about make out Dan’s face from his bedside lamp. It ushered branches of dim visibility and Phil had to squint to see him properly, feeling like he was losing him. Dan didn’t answer in so many words, but before he switched the lamp off, he gave a look that whispered a guilty _I didn’t_ into the night.

And, no, he hadn’t. Not even slightly.

><

If there was anything worse than a weekday, it was being tired on a weekday. Phil hadn’t slept at all because he had too many questions and not enough answers, had a promise looming over his head and a boy he couldn’t understand.

The school day was slow and apathetically dull. It dragged itself through prolonged classes and seamless hours. It made a point of sticking around, whilst Dan made a point of being tiresomely mysterious.

Phil was completely aware that he was in a bit of a sticky situation. He wanted to ask why Dan couldn’t just tell him what he hadn’t already but he was obviously uncomfortable with it. He obviously wasn’t going to come outright with it, but Phil wished he would; things would’ve been a whole lot easier.

He wouldn’t have to play the role of a detective, wouldn’t have to go out of his way or read between lines. He probably shouldn’t have been so bothered with it anyway, but it felt like all he’d ever wanted was to understand Dan. Really know him. He wanted to be the first one to care enough, wanted to be the first one to crack him open and find every missing or crooked piece.

So he figured he’d just have to work with what he had. He’d just have to use what he was able to reach and, right now, that wasn’t a lot.

><

Phil stayed up that evening staring at Sammy's name on the walkie talkie and pulling at stray seams. He half expected Dan to offer to go to the attic again, but that never came about. He just sat talking to PJ for a bit and Phil couldn’t help but feel let down.

“Hey, Phil?” PJ called from his bed, eventually sparking a recognition.

Phil glanced over, eyes instinctively jumping to Dan and then away. “Yeah?”

“Your uncle’s coming back?”

Phil looked back to Dan like he’d just admitted he killed a man. He’d told him. It wasn’t that big of a deal, but—A string snapped between them, pulled and shook and broke.

“I think so,” Phil said, undeniably doubting himself. “I’m pretty sure.”

“How long has it been?”

Phil crossed his legs, scratched the back of his neck and shrugged. “Not really sure. Weeks. Months, probably. I don’t know.”

“It’s been a long time, then,” PJ stated the obvious, and Phil gave a nod. There was a moment of silence, where PJ thought and Phil thought and Dan played with the bed linen.

“Hey, do you know what we should do?” PJ’s voice ignited with excitement.

“What?” Dan and Phil harmonised.

“Call your uncle.”

“Call him?” Phil echoed. “How can we call him?”

“Surely his number’s in the book of call logs on the front desk?”

“Yeah—Yeah, it is. But why would we need to do that?”

“So you can ask him if he’s coming back,” PJ said, with a look on his face that made Phil feel like it was a stupid question. “You’ll never know otherwise. I know you say he is, but he’d have come back by now.”

“You don’t know that,” Dan suddenly chirped. “If he says his uncle’s coming back, he’s coming back. We have to trust him.”

Phil released a breath at the gentle defence, feeling like Dan was with him, taking his side.

“Dan, come off it. You’re not that stupid,” PJ rolled his eyes. “Obviously something’s holding him up. Phil has a right to know what.”

“We don’t have phones,” Phil replied, in lack of anything else.

PJ shrugged. “We’ll use the one of the front desk.”

“And how do you plan on getting to that, chief?” Dan crossed his arms and fixed his lips tightly together in an expression of immaturity.

“I don’t know, you know your way around here better than anyone.”

“So it’s up to me?” Dan paused for a responsive nod. “This is a terrible idea. Phil, tell him.”

“It is kind-of risky, PJ,” Phil evened, looking at the boy in the weird, Italian pyjamas. It wasn’t that he didn't trust Dan (he trusted him a whole lot more than PJ), it was just that he didn’t trust the probability of getting caught. And what that would mean for the three of them.

“Oh, you guys worry too much!” PJ threw his arms in the air and pouted. “Can we? Pretty please. This place is so boring, I want an adventure.”

“PJ, it really isn’t a good idea,” Dan said. “And it’s for Phil. If he doesn’t want to do it, don't make him.”

“You’re such babies,” PJ muttered and looked back over to Phil. “Come on, how can you not be curious where your uncle’s got to?”

“Leave it, PJ,” Dan pressed.

“I’m just asking him! This is a chance to speak to his uncle, how can he turn it down?”

“Because just he has. He doesn’t want to do it, he’s told you. Just drop it.”

“God, don’t get your pants in a twist. I was just asking.”

“Well, don’t. It’s not a good idea,” Dan climbed from the bed and walked back around to his own whilst PJ pulled a face. Phil had an urge twisting in the pit of his stomach to give in and agree; he didn’t like the fact that he was preparing to go against Dan, but he was curious. He missed his uncle so much and he wanted to know where he was, when he was coming back. Why he hadn’t come back yet. Dan would, no doubt, have wanted to know if it were his relative. 

“I think we should,” Phil spoke, so quietly he was sure neither of them had heard.

“What?” PJ confirmed his assumption.

“I said I think we should,” Phil couldn’t look at Dan. “Call him.”

“Yes!” PJ punched the air, jumping up onto his knees like an exploding firework.

“Phil, no,” Dan pushed his legs back out of his bed and stared at Phil like he couldn’t quite believe it. “Please, don’t.”

Phil didn’t know why he was so concerned. They’d been to the attic however many times, what was the difference? They had an equal chance of getting caught.

“I just want to know where he is, Dan. I do have a right to know. He’s my uncle.”

“Yeah, Dan,” PJ interrupted. “Stop acting like his mom.”

“Shut up, PJ,” Dan snapped. “I’m the only one with sense here, it’s a terrible idea and I’m just trying to look out for him—for both of you.”

“We’re gonna be fine,” Phil promised. “I’m not stupid, I can take care of myself. I’ll make sure to stay safe.”

“We both will,” PJ’s voice was just slightly reassuring in its haze of recklessness. He reached for his watch on his bedside table and glanced at it. “It’ll be lights out soon. We’ll give it fifteen minutes and then sneak out. Sound good?”

Phil nodded, pulling his bedsheets over himself and slipping the walkie talkie still in his lap under his pillow.

“We’ll have to find the safest route,” PJ continued. “I take it you’re not coming Dan?“

Reaching for his light, Dan shook his head and rolled over in his sudden darkness, away from them. Phil felt like somebody had stabbed a knife in his chest and was moving it around. His blood poured red and guilty.

“Whatever. We’ve got this, Phil,” PJ flashed a confident smile. “Get up when you hear me, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

PJ switched his own light off and Phil did the same. Slowly, the room faded to a blanket of nothingness and within a few minutes, it was pitch black. Outside seemed brighter tonight, Phil found, the moon’s light shining more prominently through into the room. Phil crossed his fingers and toes and took a moment to pray hard for their safety. He also slipped in a small mention of his uncle and Martyn, wishing the same until the end of time.

Fifteen minutes stumbled by. PJ’s bed creaked softly to the side of Phil like an alarm and he immediately followed, stepping out and sliding his slippers on. He considered bringing his walkie talkie, but decided against it. PJ didn’t have one anyway.

Through the room, Phil could just make out PJ creeping carefully past beds. He was a few stealthy steps forward himself when a hand grabbed his upper arm and he spun around with a light gasp.

“Shh, it's me,” Dan. Of course, it was Dan.

“What are you doing? I thought you weren’t—”

“If you’re mad enough to go, then I’m coming with you. PJ’s off his rocker, God knows what he’ll make you do when you'rr down there,” Dan whispered, hand still wrapped around Phil's arm. “Stay close, okay? We can’t do anything unless we get out of here first.”

Dan kept a hold on Phil as they walked through the room, taking each floorboard with a skilled steadiness. Phil had a feeling of unexplainable security as Dan’s breath escaped down the side of his ear and neck, warm and controlled. 

As they pushed themselves out of the room, they found PJ standing looking nervous in the hallway.

“Phil, why did you take so—Oh, Dan. You’re coming?”

“Yeah,” Dan rubbed his eyes, adjusting to the harsh shine of light.

“Good job,” PJ laughed softly. “Haven’t got a clue where I’m going.”

“I figured. You’d both end up with your heads chopped off and hung up on Miss Leer’s wall if you went alone.”

Phil’s heart settled at Dan’s joke. It wasn’t the time for humour, but it made everything feel normal, less tense. Though maybe that was just Dan’s presence in itself.

“Which way are we going, then?”

“Just down the stairs is fine, that isn’t the problem. It’s Old Abbott we have to worry about,” Dan said. “One of us will have to distract her.”

“How?”

Dan sighed. “Do I have to think of everything, PJ?”

“Clearly.”

“Well, I don’t know what we can do.”

“Maybe you could ask for some new bedsheets or something, PJ,” Phil interjected.

“Yeah, say you’ve wet the bed,” Dan’s lips tugged into an amused smile.

PJ looked a little less than annoyed at that. “Why do I have to do it?”

“Because Phil’s got to be the one to call his uncle and my job is to get us down there safely,” Silence. “Come on, I thought you up for an adventure.”

“Fine,” PJ reluctantly gave in. “Fine, whatever.”

“Great. Let’s go, then.”

Dan led them down the hallway and staircase, making sure PJ was in front so that he would be seen. Phil’s paranoia was exploding in tingles down his spine as he turned repeatedly behind himself, checking for any form of danger.

When they reached the bottom, Dan grabbed PJ’s shoulder and whispered, “The fresh bed linen is in the back cupboard so no doubt she’ll take you in there. Give us about ten minutes.”

“What if she tries to leave?”

“Don’t let her. She’ll see us, we’ll be right outside. Mention her grandkids or something, she’ll natter for donkey’s about them.”

“Okay,” PJ whispered and grappled for a long breath. “Ready?”

“Go,” Dan gave him a light push and he stepped down from the stairs, out into open view. Phil caught traces of a whispered conversation from in the reception, and when it seemed to die down, Dan peered around the corner.

“It’s clear, we’re good to go,” he reached and linked his small fingers around Phil’s skinny wrist, pulling him down from the stairs. They snuck through behind the desk and once Dan had grabbed the large and obvious book of call logs, they ducked down to the floor.

“Is it in alphabetical order?” Phil asked, hushed. He was all too aware of the shut door right behind them.

“Yeah, you’re looking for L,” Dan said, following Phil’s eyes to the door. “Don’t worry, mate, I’ve got us. Just find his number.”

Phil flitted hastily through the book, scanning the letters printed at the top left in bold font. 

I, J, K—Phil stopped suddenly and squinted down at the list of names.

“Can you see?” Dan whispered, watching. “I didn’t bring my torch, sorry.”

“It’s alright, I think I’ve—Yeah, I’ve got him,” Phil let his finger hover above a handwritten _Mr. Owen Lester_ and a finely scrawled number. “Where’s the phone?”

“Just up here, you’ll have to reach.”

Phil leaned up and rested the book on the desk, dialling the correct number quick but accurately and pressing the phone to his ear. It rang once, twice, three times. Then another several, before it died out.

“He didn’t pick up,” Phil’s voice shook in sheer disappointment.

“It’s okay, you can try again,” Dan was significantly calm. “We have time.”

So Phil dialled the number again and waited through another four rings before he heard a crack, a rustle and then a gruff, “Hello?”

“Hello?”

Pause. “Who’s this?”

“It’s me, it’s Phil,” Nothing. “Is this—”

“Phil, buddy,” he sounded stricken. “What’re—How’re—Where are you ringing from?”

“The orphanage,” Phil whispered. “Sorry, I’m whispering because it’s late and—Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, buddy, I can hear you.”

“Oh, good. I’ve missed you so much, uncle, you have no idea—”

“I’m missing you, too. Uh, how are you calling, little man?”

“I’ve just—Well, I’m not really supposed to be, I just—” Phil struggled, frightened of disappointment and disapproval. “When are you coming back?”

“Phil, you can’t be ringing me like this. Go back to bed, okay?”

“No, uncle, it’s important. You said you’d be back for me—”

“I never said that.”

“No, but—”

“Buddy, it’s difficult, okay? Ask Martyn, he’ll explain, I’m sure. I didn’t want to do it but I had to. Money’s rough and your aunt and I, we can’t afford children—”

“So you’re not coming back? Martyn said you never were,” Phil’s voice trembled and he gripped onto the wooden edge of the desk until his fingers paled, trying to find some solace. “He was telling the truth, wasn’t he? You hate me and want to get rid of me—”

“No, Phil! I love you and your brother to death—”

“You don’t. You lied to me, you don’t love me—”

“You’ll understand one day,” His voice had grown heavier, weighted with guilt and a pensive sadness. “I promise you will. And you’ll forgive me too, just like Martyn will. You’re going to have somebody that will make you both so much happier than you could’ve ever been with us.“

“But I want to be with you, I don’t want to be with anybody—” Phil wasn’t aware he was crying until he couldn’t get the last word out.

“I love you, okay? I’ll always love you, and I won’t ever—”

“I’ll wait for you—Please, I’ll—”

“I’m sorry, buddy. Really, I am. But this is the right thing to do and you’ll see that one day.”

“No! You liar! I-I hate you!”

“Phil,” His tone wavered. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do! I hate you, I hate you, I—”

“Phil, hang up, Phil,” A soft voice. A pretty boy. Dan cupped his hands around the phone and ended the call, slinking an arm around Phil’s shoulders and pulling him to his chest in a _crushing_ hug. Phil crashed against him like waves on a shore, defiant and merciless and flawed.

“H-He said he wasn’t coming back, Dan—He said he never would.”

“Phil, I’m so sorry,” Dan held him tight, so tight, as though he was holding them both above water. Their stomachs were pressed together and Phil felt a sadness deep in his bones. He had Dan’s name soaking into every inch of his skin, and he wanted to say _it’s okay, lovely boy, it’s not your fault, it’s never your fault, thank you for being here for me_ but he didn’t have enough sense connecting his brain to his mouth. All he could conjure was a small and broken, “I hate him, Dan.”

“I know,” Dan whispered into his ear, lips wet against the soft skin. “I know you do. And I know it’s horrible, but it’ll be okay.”

“It won’t—”

“It will. I promise you it will.”

“I’ve lost him Dan, and I’m never gonna get him back. He’s gone forever, I can’t even say a proper goodbye—”

“But you have Martyn. He’ll always be here for you, won’t he? And you have me,” Dan inched back slightly to gaze at Phil as he drew in shaky breaths. He lifted a thumb and brushed it over the tears, gathering them like they were gold dust and he was the sun. It was such a sweet gesture, so careful and childlike and Phil wanted to hug him again.

Hug him and never let him go, like he was a piece of his childhood.

“I have you,” Phil repeated, much quieter but equally as firm.

“You have me,” Dan whispered. “I’m right here.”

He was. And he looked so lovely, so warm and soft and just everything a boy shouldn’t be. He shone beneath the square of dull light, Phil’s hands on his shoulders and a conscious dirty with _queer, queer, queer_ but he was pretty, he was beautiful.

And in that moment, he was Phil’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s taken me over a year to write this. I’m so, so proud of it and I can only hope you’re seeing it as the fic I always intended it to be. Nothing much good ever really comes out of my writing, so it makes me so happy to see some of you genuinely enjoying it.x


	8. VIII

**VIII**

“We need to get back upstairs,” Dan spoke after an expansion of silence. His voice was so quiet and controlled, it was almost like he didn’t want to burst the bubble that had just expanded around them. He reached for the book of call logs and closed it heavily. He kept a hand on Phil’s shoulder to direct him up the winding staircase, where they rested on the top step to wait for PJ.

“Are you okay?” Dan put his hand on Phil’s knee and squeezed.

“I wish he’d have just told me,” Phil sniffed, wiping his hand over his nose.

“Maybe he didn’t want to face your reaction.”

Phil fought for a breath, feeling like his lungs were ceasing up from his previous moment of misery. “I told him I hated him, Dan.”

Guilt had begun to surface already, fleeting alongside regret to replace the fading feeling of displeasure.

“He knows you don’t mean it, I’m sure. Everybody says things they don’t mean when they’re mad, you’re no different.“

Phil looked up at Dan and managed a smile. Dan’s lips upturned instantly, offering him the smile back. He was so precious in these moments, Phil thought. His defence never stayed down for long, but for the minutes it did, he was his best.

“You could be the next one to go," Dan said. “You know, adoptive parents. It’d be a right adventure, that.”

“I don’t know if I fancy it,” Phil’s voice was still somewhat heavy as he lifted his hand to brush his eyes.

“I know I do.”

“You’ve been here a long time though—” Phil felt a pang of realisation in his chest. “God, Dan. How long have you been here, and I’m moaning about something like this. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, mate. I don’t even worry about it anymore,” he paused. “It’d be nice to go, yeah, but I suppose what doesn’t happen, doesn’t happen.”

“It’s sad you’ve been here long enough to think like that,” Phil told him. “I hope you find somewhere before I do.”

Dan shook his head and looked down to his socks. “I don’t need anybody anymore. I can’t even remember what it feels like.”

Phil’s heart clutched in his chest at the confession. He was about to say something, anything, before a flustered PJ holding an armful of linen came around the corner, into view.

“I only thought you’d gone and left me,” he rubbed his temples, clearly distressed. “That was the most embarrassing thing in the world, you should’ve heard the things I was making up. She kept insisting to come up and wash my sheets, and I didn’t know whether it was safe to let her leave—Did you make the call?”

Dan looked to Phil, little hands dangling down near the step he was sat on.

“What’s happened?” PJ seemed to catch on, scouring Phil’s blotchy eyes and continuous sniffing. “Did he not answer or something?”

“He’s not coming back,” Phil said, low and painful.

“Oh,” PJ gulped, shifting the sheets uncomfortably in his arms. “He’s not? How come?”

“Because this is an orphanage and people don’t _come back_ , PJ,” Dan sounded intolerant and cold. He sounded like he had a blame to direct and he’d found the right person.

“Alright, alright,” PJ’s voice lifted. “I was only asking.”

“Whatever,” Dan huffed as he stood, weakly nudging Phil's shoulder. His tone came out softer as he proposed, “Let’s just go to bed, yeah? It’s late and there’s school tomorrow.”

Phil stood to his feet also and followed Dan silently down the hallway. The infrequent creak of the floor behind them indicated PJ’s whereabouts as he trailed after. Phil didn’t say a word as they slipped inside the room, he didn’t think he could manage anymore. He let himself fall under his sheets and pulled them over his head, burying deep undercover.

“This is why I didn’t want him to ring,” Dan’s voice fluttered in as a whisper and Phil almost looked up to answer, until he realised it wasn’t him he was speaking to. “This is why I said no, PJ. I knew this would happen.”

“No, you didn’t. If you did, you wouldn’t have let him go down.”

“I tried to stop him, you can’t say I didn’t. I said it was a bad idea, but—”

“But he wanted to do it. It wasn’t my fault, why are you blaming me?”

“Because he’s my best friend and he’s upset and I need somebody to blame,” A weight resolved in Dan’s voice, one heavy with a shared sadness.

“Not me, though. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“You suggested making the phone call when it was obvious why he hadn’t come back. He’s been gone for months and this is an orphanage.”

“Then why didn’t you just tell him, Dan? Why didn’t you just break the news to him instead of waiting to blame me?”

“Because I didn’t know how, and I didn’t want to make him cry.”

PJ sniffed, overshadowing the rustling of his covers. Everything was quiet and Phil counted down from ten, figuring the silence couldn’t last much longer than that. He tightened his little fists around his bedsheets.

“He’ll be okay,” PJ whispered finally. “You both will.”

“He’ll be fine—A boy like him can’t not be fine.”

“And you.”

Dan was silent, stilted. Phil heard him roll over and bury himself between his sheets, muttering a quiet “goodnight” before hiding away. His blatant ignorance to the statement was tragic.

_I can’t even remember what it feels like._

><

Dan stayed close to Phil throughout the week. Over the course of five days, there were little moments here and there, little gestures that whispered _it’s okay, I’m here_. A hand on his back, a shoulder brushing against his, a smile and a pull on his wrist.

They seemed to anchor Phil’s heart, seemed to wrap bandages tight around it to prevent any cracks. Of course, Phil was still sore and tastelessly bitter from the previous phone conversation—(how could he not be?)—but he was managing. He saw Martyn on Thursday and mentioned briefly that he had been right all along, that he was sorry he ever doubted him.

Martyn gave him a hug and a pat on the back, told him he was brave.

Phil kind-of let Dan’s mystery slip his mind. Sammy’s name emerged far in the week when Harrison picked and pulled at Dan’s strings, and it was only then that he remembered. It was only then he thought about the purple bruises and the cruel comments and he felt so selfish. He’d forgotten that the world still continued to spin on his axis regardless of any individual setbacks. Life went on, and he’d had a harsh reminder.

Phil didn’t think that was fair. He realised there came a day when nobody would say your name because nobody would remember you or your little inconveniences. Nobody would remember what you had done and what you hadn’t, whether you were good or bad.

Nobody would remember if you were worth it or not.

Phil wanted to live forever, just so that he could scream Dan’s name to the sky and never let it forget a boy so perfectly broken. But he couldn’t. He only had breath and a beating heart, and both of those things were rather insignificant because they weren’t there for eternity. So, that night, he whispered _Dan, Dan, Dan_ to the moon and asked it to be the world’s reminder, if it were to ever forget.

><

On Sunday, just after lunch, Miss Leer called Dan down to her office. She said it was important and couldn’t wait until after a game of footie, by no means. Phil and PJ went ahead and played anyways, building attempts like towers to improve PJ’s goalie skills.

“How long have you been playing in goal?” Phil asked, going for another shot. The ball zipped towards the left corner and PJ snatched it from the grass with his fingers.

“Quite a while,” he huffed on the words as he pulled himself up and wiped his shirt down.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I played in a team once.”

“You did?” Phil sounded impressed.

PJ nodded. “Not for long, but I did. It was really fun. I was the goalie, obviously, and we won all our games. We had, like, little league matches and played against teams from other regions of the country.”

“Was this in Italy?” Phil questioned.

“No, no. Here. Footie’s better here.”

Phil laughed, doubtful. He didn’t think anything in England could be better than in Italy. He’d never been there himself, but he’d heard things. Amazing things. It was a foreign country, making it synonymous with _really cool._

“Take another shot,” PJ booted the ball up the green to Phil, who stopped it under his shoe. 

Phil followed the instruction and fired the ball high in the air, watching as it soared into the top corner and skimmed past PJ’s stretching grasp. 

“Dammit, no!” he cursed loudly. 

“You almost got it!” 

“Hardly. You’re too good for me, I want Dan to come play.” 

Phil frowned, abruptly defensive. “Dan’s good.” 

“He wishes,” PJ teased. “He’ll never be as good as you.” 

“Of course he will. He’s just gotta keep trying.” 

“Sure, mate. Where’s he got to with Miss Leer anyways?” Instinctively, PJ turned to the building, squinting his eyes and holding a hand above his brows to protect his vision from the burning sun. It was hot out today, particularly hotter than usual and especially for a premature October afternoon. 

“They’re probably talking about something,” Phil had taken a seat down on the grass, hands flat out behind him. 

“Well, duh. What about, though?” There was a cease as PJ’s eyes twinkled. “You think it’s about the other night? With the phone call? You think we were seen?” 

Phil’s breath caught in the back of his throat. He shook his head vividly. “No way. We’d have heard them.” 

“Somebody must’ve grassed on him,” PJ said.

“PJ, they didn’t,” Phil knew he didn’t sound at all convincing, but he hoped he did. “Miss Leer wasn’t mad. She didn’t seem it, anyway. Usually you know if she’s cross, like, she has that look about her. You know you’re gonna get in trouble if you enter that office.” 

PJ shrugged and lay himself down on the grass, leg propped up and hand covering his face. Phil heard him sigh and roll onto his stomach, then back onto his back. “It’s hot out today,” he told the sky. 

“It is,” Phil agreed. “It’s the first time this grass has been sittable.” 

“ _Sittable_?” 

“Dry enough to sit on.” 

PJ looked up with the sun’s light dancing in his smile. “You’re weird, you know? In a good way, of course. I like it.” 

“Thanks. You’re a bit weird yourself.” 

PJ pulled his lip into his mouth and shook his head. “Am not.” 

“You so are. You wear weird pyjamas and stuff. And your hair’s mad.” 

““They’re _Italian_ pyjamas and my hair isn’t mad. It’s nothing compared to Dan’s.” 

Phil’s mouth curled at the mention of the brown mess, all curly and wavy and madly falling. He felt a burst of happiness in his chest thinking of the way it looped around the sides of his ears.

“He needs it cutting, he does.” 

“He doesn’t,” Phil challenged. “His hair’s awesome.” 

“Whose?” 

Phil turned to the interject in the conversation, to the familiar face. Dan had a smile on his lips that said he already knew the answer. 

“We were just saying you have weird hair,” PJ informed. “You know, ’cause you do.” 

“I said you didn’t,” Phil caught Dan’s gaze. 

“Thanks,” Dan didn’t seem the least bit troubled and when he walked around the pair to crash on the grass, he had a significant spring to his step. 

“So, what was all that about then?” PJ kicked Dan’s leg lightly. 

“Huh?” 

“You know. With Miss Leer.” 

“Oh,” Dan breathed. “Nothing.” 

“Nothing?” 

“Yeah, just, uh—it was a new timetable for school. They’re changing them for some people apparently.” 

“Really?” Phil beamed, somewhat excited and somewhat relieved. “Are you in our lessons now?” 

“I haven’t seen it yet,” Dan dejected gently, plucking at strands of grass. “I hope so, though. I don’t think I’m unlucky enough to end up alone twice but it’s possible, knowing me.” 

“How come you get a new one?” Phil asked him. 

Dan didn’t meet his eyes, but he sounded confident in his response as he muttered, “She didn’t say. They’re probably moving people around in ability groups and stuff.” 

“Oh, yeah. That makes sense.” 

But it wasn’t until their trip to the attic that night that Phil found it had nothing to do with new timetables at all. 

Settling down on the blankets and resting themselves against the softly painted walls, Dan looked undoubtedly nervous. He looked as though somebody was pulling his right arm, somebody else his left. 

“Are you okay?” Phil questioned, meek. 

“I need to talk to you about something,” Dan struggled, fiddling with the fraying corners of the blanket before sending it off of his legs. 

Phil didn’t know why he instantly thought bad, bad, bad, why his palms immediately felt clammy and his skin itched, crawled. A pressure squeezed on his chest, and he felt heavy inside. 

“Okay,” he sounded vulnerable when he spoke. “What is it?” 

“Miss Leer spoke to me about something really big earlier,” Dan looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, smile or frown. 

“Timetables?” 

“No, it had nothing to do with timetables,” he admitted. “That was just what I had to—wanted to—tell PJ.” 

Phil gulped, feeling anxious. He nodded slowly and said, “Alright. So what is it?” 

“It’s—Well, it’s—” Dan paused and longly exhaled, ran his little hands over his hair and pushed his fingers between the strands. “I don’t know how to say it, to be honest. It’s really great news, I promise, but I feel bad.” 

“Just tell me, it’s okay,” Phil edged, curiosity and concern angling his voice. 

Dan took one more breath before his frame trembled and he spilled, “A fifty-year-old couple in Scotland have just signed the papers to adopt me.” 

Phil’s stomach lunged. His mouth fell agape and he tried to shut it, to no avail. Adopt. Dan. He never thought he’d connect the words, never thought he’d see the day this lovely boy left these walls. 

“Dan, that’s—Wow, that’s so great!” Phil wanted to hug him, he wanted to hug him so much, but settled for a shoulder nudge and a bubbly laugh as Dan shone and dazzled like fairy lights left on all day. 

It hadn’t been long at all since their conversation on the stairs, since he’d said he didn’t need anyone and was convinced he was never going to leave. 

“It is, isn’t it? I can’t believe it’s true, honestly. I can’t believe I’m actually going—” 

“Neither can I, but you deserve it. You deserve it so much more than anyone else—Hey, why’d you say you feel bad?” Phil recollected, still with a burning contentment. 

Dan’s smile dwindled from his lips. Phil couldn’t help but feel guilty for ruining his spate of intense happiness and excitement. 

“Because I’ll be leaving you,” Dan said, small and suddenly miserable. “I’m going up to Scotland with them on Tuesday.” 

“But you haven’t even met them yet.” 

“No, I have. Miss Leer pulled me out of class last week.” 

Phil paused. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Because I didn’t know if it was going to follow through. I figured it’d just be like the last one, and all the others, failing at the final hurdle.” 

“So you’re going? You’re leaving? For real?” The hope in Phil’s voice was contradicting and confusing. 

Dan nodded and chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Are you mad?” 

“Of course I’m not mad,” Phil shook his head and looked down into his lap, then back up. “I’ll miss you a lot. But I’ll be okay.” 

Phil thought about an empty space in the place of Dan’s bed, an empty space in the place of his best friend. An empty space in the place of his heart. He wondered if he’d have to keep this attic safe, or if he wouldn’t bother coming up anymore at all. Of course, he still had PJ. But that didn’t hold half as much meaning as what it meant to have Dan. 

“I don’t like leaving you,” Dan sighed. “Hey, look at me. I finally get a friend in this stupid place and then I have to leave.” 

“I’m so happy for you,” Phil settled for that, not really sure what else he could say but _no, please don’t go, I can’t do this without you_. It was all about not showing weakness, Phil thought. It was all about being strong in these moments, when the splits weren’t allowed to tear farther. He couldn’t let Dan see him crack and crumble. That would just be selfish and insensitive. He deserved to go, he deserved to be happy. 

He was going to be happy. 

“Thanks, mate,” Dan whispered. “I’ll miss you so much.” 

“I’ll miss you, too,” Phil felt his fingers twitch. The air was hot and stuffy and he poked his feet out of the blankets, sighing. He wanted to reach for Dan, touch him or hold him or feel close to him but their shoulders were together, just about, and maybe that was enough. 

Maybe just about would always be enough. 

><

Dan’s soon departure hung over Phil’s head like a rain cloud. He tried not to think about it, he tried so hard, but it proved nearly impossible. The only time it wasn’t preying on his mind was when he slept, which also seemed like such a challenge. 

Phil knew it could only get worse once he left. He knew racing minds and difficulty sleeping were nothing compared to what was to come; he predicted empty stomachs and no air to breathe. He predicted the dull ache in the pit of his being to grow, expand, deepen. 

He couldn’t quite believe the mark Dan had left on him in such a short space of time. It was ridiculous when he thought about it. Once, he’d been the stranger who brought him breakfast. Now, he was his best friend. The best best friend to ever live. 

And the thing was, it hurt so much because— 

Because Phil wasn’t finished with him yet. There was still so much he had to figure out, so much he had to tie up. There was Sammy and Harrison and _queer_ and scars and why he’d been alone for so long, why he’e missed out on affection. Phil felt like a book was being taken from him after he’d read only the first two pages. 

Because Dan was leaving. 

_Dan was leaving._

Forever. 

There was no promise of him coming back and, this time, he didn’t try to make one. 

><

By Monday morning, Dan had began packing. He kept quiet about it, saying he’d never been great at goodbyes and more than half of the orphanage wouldn’t give him so much as a farewell regardless. Phil said he was just overreacting, that maybe they’d give him a proper send off. 

It was horrible to think that a boy who’d lived here so long was just going to disappear in the breeze. Without so much as a single _see you, mate._ Phil thought he’d probably have to clean up after him when he’d gone, tell PJ and Martyn and onlookers like Lent why he’d just disappeared. But, at the same time, he would be angry with them for not acknowledging. The sound of silence was the same as the sound of a click of a door on an exit for these people. 

But, for now, they packed secretively, as the morning sun awoke amongst sheets of blue. Around them, boys still slept, snoring quietly and dreaming serenely. 

“Are you going to take all your board games with you?” Phil asked as he peered under the bed, face pushed against the floor. 

“I don’t think so, they belong to the orphanage,” Dan said back, voice quiet. “Miss Leer might kill me if I fill my suitcases with them.” 

Phil grinned and noiselessly pushed himself to his knees. He shuffled across the wooden slats and gaped to where Dan sat, packing neatly folded shirts. 

He felt a bit empty. Tired and empty. He wanted to stop this all, to pause the world right where it was and never have to press play, but he couldn't. And he had to stop thinking like he was. 

Looking back to his own bed, he spotted his red cap sticking out from on underneath. He thought about Dan and their first meeting, thought about his amicability and his humorous posing. He moved on his knees and pulled out the cap. 

“Hey, Dan,” Phil called faintly, aware of his surroundings. Dan looked up with a questioning expression. “You remember that red cap?” 

“Which one?” he frowned and glanced up over the mattress. 

“The one you liked. This one,” Phil held it up. 

_“Oh, yeah,” he smiled, recognising._

Phil was still, hoping he’d catch on. When he didn’t, he raised his eyebrows and offered, “Do you want it?” 

Dan’s expression softened, lightened, and he slowly shook is head. “I can’t, mate. It’s yours, it’s amazing, it’s—No, I can’t.” 

“Please have it,” Phil whispered, and leaned across the bed to push it into Dan’s proximity. “Please. To remember me by.” 

“I don’t need a cap to remember you—I could never forget you.” 

“You might do,” Phil evened. “You’ve got the rest of your life to forget me.” 

“I’ve got the rest of my life to miss you,” A look of sudden fright dashed over Dan’s face the moment the words left his lips, almost like he shouldn’t have said them and he’d realised too late. But Phil’s chest had warmed and his fingertips were tingling; he was on fire, burning with a strange kind-of flattery. Thinking he’d be a part of Dan’s life forever, even if just in his memory, was enough to set him alight inside. 

And as much as Dan looked cold, icy, he must’ve been the same beneath the glacial front. He must’ve been. 

“Really?” he whispered eventually. “Can I have it?” 

Phil grinned and tossed him the cap, not needing to say anything else on the matter. Dan pulled it down over his ears and gave Phil an expression of honest gratitude, before slipping it into a compartment in his suitcase. 

They continued on. 

><

Phil didn’t want to remember Dan by suitcases and a sense of urgency. But by Monday evening, it felt like that’s all he had left. Phil hung mostly around PJ as Dan packed, as a means of distraction, despite how he wanted to help. 

They played footie and a game of catch, then did homework down in the cafeteria before dinner. Fortunately, he wasn’t the least bit curious. 

Miss Leer called Phil into her office as dinner began. She told him to leave his plate of food with PJ because he wouldn't be long at all. 

As she shut the door of her office and told him to sit down, he had a jump in his heart. Everything about these walls nerved him. 

“I have a really great proposal to make for you,” she informed, clicking across the panels to her desk. She took a seat and smiled. “I’m sure you’ve heard about Dan’s departure tomorrow.” 

Phil nodded. “Yes, Miss. I’ve been helping him pack.” 

“Well, that’s awfully kind of you. Is he all ready to go?” 

“I think so. He’s got a good few suitcases.” 

Miss Leer smiled again and brushed a lock of her hair out of her face. “The couple adopting him are in their early fifties. Mr and Mrs Teller. They’re just lovely; I’d like to tell you a bit about them.” 

_Why?_ Phil thought, but didn’t dare ask. 

Miss Leer had her hands folded upon her cluttered desk, looking at Phil with a soft expression. “Around eight years ago, Mrs Teller miscarried two twin boys. You understand what that means, don’t you?” 

Phil slowly shook his head, as though he was _stupid_ or something. 

“It means they died in her stomach, whilst she was still pregnant. It was deeply saddening for the both of them, and I’m sure they’ll tell you much more about it if you ask them.” 

Phil’s head was stuttering like an electric current, buzzing with questions. _When would he get the chance to ask them? Dan, maybe, but certainly not him. Had he missed something? He wasn’t the one going, was he?_

“Because of their age, they aren’t able to try for anymore children. So they came here with the hope of adopting two young boys.” 

Phil gulped, so hard it was audible. He itched with anticipation. 

“I presume Dan’s told you about his meeting with them. They absolutely loved him, as he did them,” Miss Leer paused for a moment. “Then I showed them a series of pictures of boys his age. Of course, you were one of them.” 

Phil nodded. 

“Can you see where this is going?” 

He nodded again, but stayed silent. He wanted to hear her say it. Maybe it’d feel real then. 

“You have the chance to go with them, love,” she confirmed softly. “With Dan and the Tellers. They said you seemed perfect from what I’d told them, and I knew it was an excellent choice, being as you and Dan are so close—And I know you haven’t met them yet, but if you come down fifteen minutes earlier tomorrow morning, then you’ll be able to talk to them. Get to know them a bit.” 

Phil didn’t know how to act on this. The information had been spat at him and was spluttering down over his head, swallowing him up. He was going. He was leaving. But what about Martyn? What about his _brother_? 

“What about Martyn?” he voiced his thoughts. 

Miss Leer cleared her throat and looked down to her hands. “He won’t be joining you, I’m afraid. The Tellers couldn’t afford three children all at once. They’re going to struggle with two, really, but it’s what they want.” 

He was staying here. Phil felt a degree of separation already drive itself into the deepest caves of his heart. He wasn’t selfish enough to break down into tears in front of Miss Leer, not after she’d just given him this opportunity. But he wanted to cry; his eyes were stinging and his throat was scratching. He’d be going with Dan, yeah, but _Martyn_. Where was the promise that he'd ever see him again? 

“I’m sorry it’s so soon, love. But I only had the phone call of confirmation an hour ago,” Miss Leer said. “And it’s entirely up to you. If you meet them tomorrow and aren’t completely certain, then you stay here and wait for the next time. But promise me you won’t turn down this opportunity for Martyn, for a reason that will continue to present itself every time adoption comes around.” 

Phil chewed into his lip and managed, “I won’t, Miss. I promise, I won’t. I really want to go with them.” 

“Oh, wonderful!” she cheered, clapping her hands high in the air. “I should think you better get upstairs and start packing then, eh? You don’t have nearly as much rubbish as Dan, so it won’t take half as long.” 

“Thank you, Miss,” When Phil stood, his chair scraped jarringly off the floor. He turned and scurried to the door, and as he rested his hand on the knob, Miss Leer called for him again. 

“Are you sure you’re alright with this? It’s very sudden, I understand. Not usually the approach we take to adoption either.” 

“No, Miss. It’s fine, it’s great, it’s—It’ll be amazing. Thank you.” 

And with that, he left, giving her a wooden door frame to answer to. As he darted up the stairs and down the hallway, he had Dan’s name on his lips and everywhere in his mouth, had it grazing its fingers down his spine. He burst through into the bedroom, where Dan sat alone, taking the remaining clothes off coat hangers in his almost empty wardrobe. 

“Phil, what’re you doing up here?” he frowned at the doorway. “It’s dinner, you’re going to miss out—” 

“Dan, they’re—Miss Leer’s just—I’m going with you, I’m going with you—” Phil didn’t make the least bit of sense as he rambled, getting lost between words and struggling to end sentences. He didn’t know whether his stuttering was a result of excitement or panic, or maybe a bit of both, but he knew his opinion wasn’t yet decided on the matter. 

“What? What’s the matter, what’s happened?" Dan dropped the coat hanger onto his bed and walked around to Phil, concern striking his face. 

“I’m going with you, Miss Leer’s told me I’m going with—” he choked on the closing word and brought his hands to his face, overwhelmed. 

“Phil, Phil,” Dan wrapped his fingers around his wrists, slowing the light tremble there. “Calm down, okay? Just breathe and talk slowly. I need to know what’s wrong—What do you mean you’re coming with me?” 

“To Scotland, Dan. Miss Leer just told me. She said that the couple, the Tellers, lost two twin boys and they want adopt another kid your age. And it’s me, they chose _me_ —” 

“So you’re coming with me? You're coming to live with me?” Dan looked like he was about to explode. This was all too much for Phil. 

“Yeah,” Phil sat down on Dan’s bed. “Yeah, I am.” 

“Phil, that’s—Oh my God, that’s incredible. We’re gonna live together, Phil, we’re gonna be together and we don’t have to say goodbye—” 

“I know, Dan. I know, but Martyn’s not coming,” Phil’s voice broke. He was shattering on the outside now, too, slowly wearing down. He’d lived his entire life with Martyn, he’d spent every day since birth with him and now he was moving so far away. To never return. 

“Oh,” The news hit Dan almost as hard as it hit Phil. He sat down next to him, like a burst balloon. “Oh, wow, that sucks. Can’t they just, you know, have one more?” 

“Miss Leer said they can’t afford it. Can barely afford us, apparently.” 

There was an unexpected silence between them then, one that stuck pins into the air with the hope of making someone bleed. Phil’s knee shook up and down, unable to still, and Dan sat tapping his fingers against his thighs. 

“You can always say no,” Dan whispered, after a few moments. “Just tell Miss Leer that you don’t want to go. It’s really soon, this. It’s not usually like this. You have to agree to adoption, it’s a two-way thing.” 

Phil peered at Dan. He looked sad, beaten, eyes heavy with a destroyed hope. His lips curved in a smile of falsity and Phil closed his eyes, rubbed his head. 

“No, I want to go with you,” he mumbled back. “Really, I do. But I don’t know if I can lose Martyn as well as my uncle. I don’t know if I could do it, Dan.” 

“Then say no, mate,” Dan rested his hand on Phil’s leg. “Don’t worry about me. Do whatever you have to do to be happy.” 

Phil sighed at the words, at the beauty of this boy. He was steering away from tears now but he still wanted Dan’s comfort, Dan’s hand on his leg. He never wanted to let him go and the fear of making the wrong decision was prickling under his skin. 

“You’d never forgive me if I said no,” Phil gently accused. 

Dan frowned. “Of course I would.” 

“Okay, then, I’d never forgive myself. I’d lose you,” he rephrased honestly. “What if I let you go now and in the future I end up with some weird guy from a foreign country?” 

Dan laughed at that, and the sound bubbled in over the blanket of desolation. “The truth is, mate, whatever adoption you get offered, there’s a chance you’ll have to go without Martyn. Having two kids costs a lot and he’s quite a bit older than you. Having the both of you will take some agreeing. You’d have to find someone really special.” 

“So you think this is the best chance I’ve got?” 

“Honestly? Yeah, I do.” 

Phil fiddled with his hands in his lap and exhaled. “I should go with you, Dan. I know I should. This is an orphanage, it’s what happens.” 

“See, you know that now,” Dan smiled. 

Phil couldn’t hold back on his own little grin. “Yeah. I know things because of you.“ 

“I’m flattered,” Dan laughed through the words, then found a sort-of reside as he continued with, “Are you coming with me?” 

Phil turned his head and locked with his eyes, feeling a burst in his chest at the brown. “Yeah,” he pushed into the air. “Yeah, I guess I am.” 

Dan’s face settled at that. He had an expression on his lips that asked can I be happy about it now? And Phil gave him a responding smile. 

“This is gonna be so good—We’re going to Scotland, Phil. _Scotland_. Can you believe that? I’m actually going to get out of here, and with you. With my best friend.” 

“I wouldn’t go if it was with anyone else,” Phil told him. “Nobody else is worth leaving Martyn behind.” 

Dan looked touched, warmed and complimented. “I don’t think I am, mate.” 

“Of course you are,” Phil said it like it was obvious. Dan was the only person in the world that Phil felt connected to, besides relation. He’d become so important to Phil—it didn’t need saying, it was just there. 

And he knew Martyn in enough depth to know that he’d be immensely proud of him for the adoption. He’d give him a hug and a joke, a _good luck, buddy_ and a wave goodbye. He was selfless, he was kind. He’d be relieved Phil had moved past crying over their uncle. 

Dan climbed from the bed and continued packing, removing the coat hanger from the bed again and putting the trousers into his suitcase. 

“You need to start packing,” he said. “I’m almost finished, so if you want to start, I can help you.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Phil agreed. He took a deep breath and then moved across to his wardrobe. He took items out two-by-two, laying them down on his bed before packing them into the bag he’d brought along with him on the first night. Opening up the zipper, he had a wave of nostalgia. He tried not to think about his uncle’s old place. 

“Hey, what are we gonna do about PJ?” Eventually, Phil spoke, as Dan came and settled near him to help. “Are we just gonna leave him?” 

“We could write him a note,” Dan proposed. “You know, just a short one. Saying sorry we’ve left him and that.” 

“I feel bad,” Phil admitted. 

“Don’t. Here, use this and write it now,” Dan handed Phil a pen. 

“On what?” 

“On the inside cover of that book he’s reading. It’s in his top drawer.” 

Phil shook his head, disapproval present in his tone. “What if we get into trouble?” 

“Who’s Miss Leer gonna discipline when we’re gone, Philly?” 

><

Telling Martyn he was leaving was the most difficult thing Phil had ever done. And he gave it that title from the very start of the conversation, struggling to get the words out of his mouth. Looking up to his eyes made him feel sick, and it didn't help that Lent was sat right there, watching, waiting. 

“So there’s this couple from Scotland who lost two twin boys a few years ago. They can’t have kids anymore because of their age and they contacted Miss Leer for adoption. She showed them some pictures and–and, well, they—” 

“They’ve decided to adopt you?” Martyn finished simply. 

“Y-Yeah,” Phil struggled, shifting atop of his brother's bedsheets. “Me. And Dan. I’m going with Dan. You know Dan.” 

“Him, too? That’s great news,” Martyn beamed, face all angled in brightness and delight. There was pride stitched somewhere between the folds of his grin. “Bloody hell, you’re going before me! Who’d have guessed? And to Scotland, too. Isn’t that great, Lent?” 

Lent nodded with his own smile. “Sounds pretty cool, little buddy. 

“Yeah, but—” Phil swallowed. “But I won’t see you ever again.” 

“Sure you will!” Martyn laughed easily. “Let’s think, uh—Lent’s got a mobile. This couple’ll surely have a phone somewhere in their place, so if he writes down his number for you, you can ring him from there and we can talk. I’ll get out of here soon, I’m almost old enough. And then I’ll come meet you. It’s no big deal, bro. You go and be happy.” 

His reaction calmed a storm in Phil's chest, but he wasn't sure which one. They all seemed to be spilling over into one another lately, like one big mess. 

“I thought you’d be mad,” Phil confessed. “That I was leaving you.” 

“Why would that make me mad? Il miss you, sure, but it’s not the end of the world. I’ll see you again. In fact, I’m happy you’ve finally gotten over him.” 

Phil thought of his uncle and the words he'd spoken on the phone; all the possible lies. He told himself, with a strong head, that he wasn’t going to think about him anymore. 

“I suppose,” Phil said. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning. You will come and say goodbye, won’t you?” 

Martyn grinned and ruffled Phil’s black hair. “Of course I will, bro.” 

><

He did. 

The sun had faded on Tuesday morning, taking with it the warm weather. Rain spluttered down into the corners lacking light and a biting chill replaced the heat. Phil wrapped himself up in three layers when he got out of bed, and put on his best trainers. Dan wore a long, black sweater and a zipped jacket over the top. 

They soundlessly clattered suitcases and bags up out of the bedroom (Phil caught Dan’s eyes trailing to Harrison with a look on his face that said this is the last time) and down the hallway. They were careful on the stairs, each step sounding with a creak beneath the cases. 

Phil’s heart was thudding when they walked into the reception. Miss Leer had her office door ajar and the front desk was empty. 

“Dan,” Phil whispered and the boy turned from in front of him, all excitement and heavy layers. “Do you think they’re here yet?” 

“They might be in Miss Leer’s office,” he answered, resting his suitcases against the desk. “Look after these, and I’ll go check—” 

“No, it’s fine. Please, it’s fine. If they’re in there, they’ll be out when they’re ready. There’s no rush,” Phil hurried, racing through the sentences and forgetting to breathe in between. 

Dan smiled knowingly. “You’re nervous, aren't you?” 

Phil gripped onto the straps of the bag on his back and shrugged slowly. “A little, I suppose. Aren’t you?” 

“Course, but I’ve already met them,” Dan reminded softly and hid his little hands in his jacket pockets. “Don’t worry, mate. They’re lovely, I promise. I’d have said no to them otherwise.” 

“Really? You wouldn’t have gone with them anyway, just to get away from here?” Phil had pondered on the subject as he slept that night. If he was in Dan’s position, he’d probably just agree to adoption to get away. An escape plan of sort. 

“No. I’ve called this place home for years, I’d much rather just stay than risk leaving. But Scotland is magical, it’s all greenery and stuff and—Well, the Tellers aren’t too bad so I figured this was my chance,” Dan leant against the desk, resting on his hand and looking through tired eyes. “It’s your chance, too. Our chance.” 

He lifted his pinky up into the air and Phil linked his around it instinctively as Dan said, “We’re in this together now, okay?” 

The words bubbled behind Phil’s eyes. He knew he’d have to keep Dan close to him now, and the feeling of never having to let him go was presenting itself with every stutter of his chest. Thinking he’d have him forever was sending his head into a whirl; he was going to watch Dan grow, as Dan was him, see him bloom beneath blue and stormy skies. 

“Do you think they’ll like me?” Phil couldn’t help but ask, sounding pronouncedly vulnerable. 

“Why wouldn’t they? If they like me, they’ll like you. You’re lovely,” Dan said. “Proper awesome, too.” 

Phil chewed down hard into his bottom lip to stifle his grin of fawning. “Thanks, Dan.” 

As a silence surfaced into the conversation, pulling it down to the floor, Miss Leer’s door opened like a missed cue. She was dressed in a formal blouse and tailored trousers, Phil noticed, as she peered her head around the frame. 

“Ah, boys, I didn’t know you’d come down,” she acknowledged. “Come through, come through. Leave your bags there, I’ll help you load them into the car in a little while.” 

Phil followed Dan past the desk and into the office. Miss Leer snuck her hand onto Phil’s shoulder as they entered, as a form of reassurance. In the two designated seats, a couple sat, dressed in thick jackets and fabrics. They turned at the ingress, and Phil snapped a mental image of their faces, like he’d ever have the chance to forget. 

The man was sharp and prominent with distinguishable features. His chin was stubbled and his eyes were small, narrow. He had slick black hair tinting grey, hidden underneath an archaic hat. He took it from his head with long fingers and rested it into his lap, keeping a tight hold. Beside him, there was a woman, and she was beautiful. She was less foremost than her husband, with hair pulled up in all different directions and lips glossed pink. Pulled onto her face was a warm expression of greeting. 

“Dan, hello again,” Mr Teller greeted the first boy, voice gruff but bizarrely amicable. “Are you all set, lad?” 

“Sure am,” Dan seemed to twinkle in the centre of the office. He flashed a smile to Mrs Teller, who dropped an equally warm, “Hello,” at her husband before turning back. 

She found Phil, scanning him from his feet to his shoulders, then up to his hair. “Well, you must be Phil. What a pleasure it is to meet you, dear.” 

“You too, ma’am,” Phil returned. He felt a pressure in his chest as Mr Teller swivelled himself round in his chair to look at him. 

“I’m Elise and this is my husband, Bernie,” Mrs Teller continued and the man beside her gave a nod and an honest smile. 

“Good to meet you, lad,” he extended his hand out and Phil took it, shaking lightly. “I take it you’re just about ready to get out of here, too?” 

Phil nodded. “I am.” 

“Excellent. We’re going up to Scotland, which is around seven hours away,” he said. “You don’t get car sick, do you?” 

Phil shook his head. 

“Good, good. We’ve got sandwiches packed for lunch and some snacks. We can stop off whenever either of you like, too. It sound alright?” 

“It sounds great,” Phil smiled. “I’m really excited to see it all.” 

“Have either of you been to Scotland before?” Mrs Teller—Elise—chirped. 

Dan and Phil synchronised on a light, “No.” 

“Ah, they’re going to love it then, aren’t they?” Bernie looked to his wife with a smile. “We live on a street surrounded by houses and right beside a bunch of shops. It’s the perfect place to grow up, really.” 

“It most certainly is,” Elise agreed. They shared a sense of over-excitement between them. “You boys are friends already, I hear?” 

Dan looked to Phil. “Yeah. Best friends.” 

“I guess we made the right choice in you lads then,” Bernie laughed. “Oh, this is going to brilliant. Just brilliant. Phil, is there anything you’d like to ask us?” 

Phil was shaking his head before he gave himself enough time to even think of a question. 

“I think that sounds alright then,” Elise looked to Miss Leer, who still stood behind Phil. 

“Yeah? You’re ready to get going?” Miss Leer gaped at the two boys, who nodded simultaneously. Bernie stood, following Elise, and pushed his chair formally beneath the desk. 

“Come on then, lads. Let’s get those cases packed in.” 

They departed out of the office, into the reception. Phil helped Dan to pick up his cases and hand them across to Bernie, who carried them out to the car. All the while, Phil’s hands were shaking. He didn’t know why. He supposed it was just because he was nervous, still anxious around these strangers he was moments away from calling his family. At the moment, Dan was the only person remotely close enough to be considered relation. But Phil didn’t really think of him as his brother—It was hard to explain. 

Dan had a total of four suitcases. Phil had one bag that he was keeping on his back. He thought it probably said a lot about their separate times at the orphanage. 

Phil’s smile turned up into a grin, then into a laugh. He pushed himself into Martyn’s chest, wrapping his arms around his back and hugging him. Crushing him, probably. Martyn let him stay there for a while, as the reception seemed to still in fear of disturbing the feeble goodbye. 

“You stay safe now, do you hear me?” Martyn patted his shoulders, then his bag. “Have you left anything behind?” 

“Nope, I’ve got everything,” Phil looked up at him. 

“Good. Make sure you don’t lose anything,” Martyn paused to inhale and give a gentle smile to the child at his feet. The height difference screamed between them as he leant down and kissed the top of his head, then playfully messed up his hair. 

“I’ll miss you,” Phil said, fixing his hair back down. “Remember to answer when I call.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of not,” Martyn promised. His eyes ventured to Phil’s right side, where Dan stood, and he reached his arms out for the boy, saying, “Come here, you.” 

Dan pushed himself against Phil’s body as he joined the lasting embrace. Martyn hugged them together, tight, releasing a heavy breath onto their heads before stepping back. 

“Take care of him,” he said to Dan. 

A soft red was inching up the back of Dan’s neck, fanning across his cheeks. “I will,” he almost whispered, like he was embarrassed or something 

Phil thought it was funny, how he was the eldest of the pair and yet Dan was promising to look after of him. It was just stupid and childish; they’d keep watch over each other, Phil thought. 

Together. 

“Are you all set, then, lads?” Bernie edged gently from the doorway. Phil stole one last expression of affection from his brother, before he turned to the exit. He gripped onto the straps of his bag and followed Dan to where Miss Leer stood, right up straight on the step. 

“Oh, I’d never thought I’d see the day,” she joked to the little brown-haired boy. “Dan Howell leaving, to never return. I’ll dare say I miss you.” 

“I suppose I’ll miss you, too,” Dan’s grin was big and toothy. 

“You both take care of yourself,” she said, looking also to Phil. “And enjoy Scotland. It’s a beautiful place.” 

_Goodbye_ hung heavily over Phil’s head as he stepped out into the chilly morning. The wind was sharp against his skin, harsh and bitter. A sleepy fog was nestled down low in the street and the headlights of the running car flared through. Phil was first to climb into the backseat, shuffling down towards the window, locking in his seatbelt and dropping his bag at his feet. Dan was there, right behind him, moving to sit as close as a car made possible to Phil. Bernie shut the door on them and rounded the car to the driver’s seat. Elise settled herself into the passenger. 

It had stopped raining, but stray droplets were still rolling aimlessly down the window’s glass, Phil found. He granted Martyn an enduring wave as the engine rumbled, the wheels span and they pulled out between two black, London cabs. 

Dan snuck his hand down onto Phil’s leg and, in a familiar gesture, offered him a squeeze of assurance. The sky was a bleak kind-of empty, grey and miserable and the car rested in an easy silence as they wound their way out of the spiral city. 

Phil thought about his uncle and Martyn, about attics and books and forgotten promises. All that he’d left behind. 

He realised he wasn’t quite sure where home was anymore. 

><

_Dear PJ,_

_Sorry we’re gone. We wanted to say goodbye but didn't know how. We’ve gone up to Scotland with adoptive parents. Wish we could take you as well. We hope you don’t hate us for leaving you. We’re gonna miss you a lot,_

_Dan & Phil._

_(P.S Sorry we never managed to get you those gloves. All the best goalies don’t need them anyways.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So, here comes the end of their time at the orphanage. Still, there’s a lot more to come! I can’t wait for you all to read what happens <3


	9. IX

**IX**

The car’s silence didn’t last for long. After about fifteen minutes, Elise suggested they play a game of eye-spy and Bernie gave a warm agreement. They seemed like a soppily loving couple; like those perfect ones on TV and soap operas, all the colour shaded between the lines.

“Eye-spy with my little eye, something beginning with . . . B,” Elise began.

“Blue,” Dan guessed.

“Nope.”

“Bird,” he guessed again.

“Nope.”

Dan nudged Phil's side, softly urging, “Have a guess.”

“Uh,” Phil thought aloud for a moment, eyes scanning the interior of the car. “Bernie?”

“No, dear,” Elise laughed.

Bernie was chuckling. “Good one, though.”

An ocean of failing guesses executed then, _bridge, butterfly, bag, bank_ , every attempt rising a shake of the head out of Elise. The boys chirped answers from the backseat, trying, like the children they were, to defeat one another. But eventually, as they rode down a busy motorway, Phil claimed victory.

“Bike?”

“Yes!” Elise cheered with an exaggerated enthusiasm. “Finally! I thought you were never going to get it.”

“Oh, go on then, Phil. Have a go,” Dan said with a smile.

“Okay,” Phil gazed out of the window, thinking hard. His eyes scanned the extensions of verdant field behind the road until they slowed, stuck. He looked away. “Eye-spy with my little eye, something beginning with C.”

“Car,” Bernie tried.

“No.”

“Cab.”

“Nope.”

“Cap?” Elise attempted.

“Nope.”

Dan peered out of the window, tactfully following where Phil’s eyes had previously wandered. “Cow?”

“Yeah,” Phil grinned at the boy. “Dan got it.”

“That was a good one,” Elise said. “Your turn then, Dan.”

The game continued for another few rounds. As the morning prolonged, it began to rain again, much harder than it had earlier. Bernie put on the radio after Elise’s suggestion and Phil rested his head against the window, watching as cars zipped past through the muzzy glass.

Dan nudged him after a little while and muttered, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he lifted his head, looked at him and sighed. “I just—I miss Martyn already.”

“It’s okay, you’re allowed to,” Dan smiled.

“I don’t really want to, though.”

“It’s probably just because you’re thinking about it. Do you want to play another game?” he encouraged, pleasant and attentive.

“I don’t know if I’m up to it,” Phil’s sigh was nothing short of apathetic.

“Hey,” Dan poked his cheek. “What have you done with Mr. Bright Side?”

Phil, now really just trying to prove a point, suppressed a laugh readily in his stomach. He put a hand to his face and shrugged.

“Can you tell him to come back, if you know where he is? I miss him,” he paused, anticipating a response. “I’m gonna put up some missing person posters.”

Phil surrendered and a laugh fractured across his ribs as he pushed Dan’s shoulder, weakly. “You’re an idiot,” he said, between humoured grins and fond gazes. 

“I'm a _comedian_.”

“You wish.”

“Hey,” he shined in mock-offence. “You think I’m hilarious.”

“I think you’re okay,” Phil corrected, teasing. It felt easier to breathe since Dan’s success in shifting the mood. 

“I’ll remember you said that.”

Phil just smiled and focused back out of the window onto the smudges of detail. The rain scuttled on the glass, scampered furiously down. It seemed like the world was drowning beneath the grey sky; it seemed like everything was a mess of water. London was a haze in the distance now, just a blur in the clustered skyline. Phil was feeling tugs on his heart at the separation from Martyn.

In a hopeless and desperate moment, he turned to Dan and asked, “Are you missing the orphanage?”

“Not yet,” he confessed quickly, as though waiting for Phil to speak. “But I suppose it hasn’t been long enough. I’m sure I will, later on. I don’t doubt it, honestly.”

“Yeah,” Phil breathed. “I hope this new place is nice.”

“Me, too. I think it will be. Anything’s gotta be better than back there though, hasn’t it? We won’t have to share rooms—Well, maybe you and I will but that doesn’t really count.”

“I’d quite like to share a room with you," Phil said around a kind smile. “I won’t get scared, then. Not that I do anyway.”

“Course not,” Dan had a grin on his face that was wobbling, threatening to upturn into a laugh at Phil’s words. “Neither do I.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Yep,” Dan said. “I’m not scared of _anything_.”

><

They stopped off around one at a small services, Bernie insisting on a ‘toilet break’ and a bit of lunch. He looked weary from all the driving. Elise had packed jam sandwiches, bottles of water and little packets of fruit. Dan and Phil ate quietly in the backseat as the radio played continuous songs through the car.

“What kind of music do you boys like?” Bernie asked, mouthful of bread and jam.

“All kinds,” Phil answered briefly. He didn’t intend to be so vague in his responses, but he was tired himself and his head was whirling. They’d gotten up much too early and he missed people he was far away from.

“What about you, Dan?”

“Rock and alternative.”

“Oh, really? That’s interesting, I don’t think I’ve met a kid that's into all that. Most of you just listen to whatever,” Bernie chuckled, looking at them in the mirror above his gaze. “Pop, rock, rap. Anything on the radio, eh?”

“I remember my grandfather used to have a bunch of old records stored in his house. I didn’t see him often but I loved it when I did, because he used to play me them,” Dan’s response was quiet, controlled, almost like there was a sort-of refrain in his voice. Phil felt like he was trespassing onto a piece of land Dan had purposely kept hidden; the recollection in his eyes was vulnerable, made him look more like a child than he’d ever seemed before.

“Really?” Bernie sounded attentive to Dan's words. “What did he play?”

“Can’t name them,” Dan admitted. “But I can hum them and stuff. I remember the tunes perfectly. They’re there in my brain forever, I think.”

“I have a pretty good collection myself, I’ll show it to you both when I have the chance,” Bernie said. “Maybe some of them’ll spark your memory.”

Dan nodded. “Yeah, that’ll be cool. I’d like to hear a lot of them again.”

He took a bite from his sandwich.

><

Approximately, they arrived in Scotland at eight that night. They stopped off several times for various reasons and there was so much traffic, Phil began counting cars to pass the time.

Despite the blur of black outside the windows, Dan’s interest was sparked by the fuzzy greenery. His excitement came in a hazy mess of _Phil, did you see that?_ and _Phil, Phil, look at that_ and it made Phil’s head spin, but he couldn’t ignore the boy when his face looked like a lighthouse. So he smiled and he laughed and he nodded his head, until the air started to settle and Dan fell asleep, head resting down helplessly onto Phil’s shoulder.

Of course, Phil didn’t have the heart to move him. He thought even if he _did_ have it in him, he wouldn’t. Their close proximity was delicately precious; Phil could feel Dan’s breath coming in soft puffs against his neck and the light brush of his hair up around his ear. It made him feel safe and different and maybe a bit confused, too. It made him feel everything, all at once, which was an oddly beautiful thing.

The low conversation of Bernie and Elise fluttered into the spaces of quiet in the car. They spoke in hushed voices, whispered tones, as the car jutted softly along the road.

Phil’s chest was heavy with the weight of uncertainty in the shine of the headlights. If he were to be honest with himself, he’d find that the only thing complete about his life was the boy asleep on his shoulder.

Scotland, in itself, was just fields, fields and more fields. As they travelled further down the windy road, Phil drove deeper into his thoughts, entwining himself farther in his own head. He thought about Dan and Sammy and Martyn and Harrison. He thought about the things he’d done right and the things he’d done wrong, the things he could’ve done better. His uncle continually forced himself into his mind like his name was built with determination but every time, Phil pushed him away, closing his eyes tightly and opening them to a dark window.

They turned off down a bumpy side-road into a little town. As they neared, the blurring gleam became tangible streetlights, shop lights, house lights. The individual beacons shone glares through into the car, tossing shadows across Dan’s relaxed face. Phil was looking down at him, at his parted lips, his sleepy expression, his moving chest and his little hands resting in his lap. He looked so small and fragile, like anything in the world could smash him up.

Phil didn’t realise the car had stopped moving until the ignition died, and the conversation from the front seat became much louder. He rubbed his hand over the glass to clear his sight, and squinted out at a quaint house.

Turning back, he gently rocked Dan’s shoulder.

“Dan,” he whispered. “Dan, wake up.”

Nothing.

“Dan—Dan, we’re here.”

The boy awoke softly and carefully, slipping back into consciousness with an obvious steadiness. Phil’s lips rose up at the corners as he groaned faintly, lifting his head, stretching out his arms and rubbing at his eyes because _God, he was so precious._

“We’re here, mate,” Phil informed him and watched his tired eyes wander out at the scenery.

“Wow, it looks amazing,” Dan’s voice was thick with a clinging sleep, but he fought against exhaustion as he unclipped his seatbelt and shuffled forward in his seat. “Look at all the flowers on the front lawn. And the size of it, too.”

“I really want to see inside,” Phil admitted, unclipping his own seatbelt and opening the door. The pair climbed out onto the pavement, onto a street painted with houses similar to the one before them. The air smelt of a new found fate and a passing storm.

Bernie was loading the suitcases from the boot and Elise was gathering the leftover food. Dan and Phil stood for a moment, in a stricken silence, gaping around at the setting. They were all too busy in their own heads to share any type of glance.

“Right, lads, come on then,” The sound of Bernie locking the car came just before his voice. He propped open the front gate and the boys followed him down the path, to the door. There, Bernie rested down the cases to open up. He unlocked the door with a weak click and Phil thought _this is it_ as he followed inside.

The foyer was unlit and inky. Outlining shapes of furniture were present, but it was hard to make out anything but the staircase in front of them.

“Gosh, let’s get some lights on for you boys to actually see in here,” Elise said, upon entering the house herself. She flicked on a switch at the entrance and the hallway ignited.

It was a weird combination of conservative and contemporary. There was a desk cluttered with keys, plants, all kinds of goods and chattels. There was a little storage cupboard for shoes and coats and an elaborate chandelier that hung from the ceiling. The wallpaper was a pretty, floral design.

“If you want to leave your things here, boys, we can get to showing you the house before bed,” Bernie opened the cupboard and Dan and Phil kicked off their shoes and strung up their coats (of course, Phil not forgetting to take out Lent’s number and grasp it tightly into his closed fist). Phil’s mind was running races; this place was going to be his _home._

“Shall we start with the living-room?” The first door to the right was the living-room, expansive and fashionably designed. Everything about it felt safe and intimate, felt foreign but somehow right.

There were two chairs and a sofa that looked like they’d never moved from the positions they were in. Atop of the little TV, ornaments were aligned. There was a clock on the mantle, curtains drawn down over the window and an unlit coal fire.

“I’m sure you’ve seen better TVs, but at least it’s something, eh?” Bernie chuckled, hand on the door.

“It’s great,” Dan spoke, voice astounded. He seemed entirely conscious, all traces of sleep having dwindled away under the shine of the house. “We never had one at all back at the orphanage.”

“Not at all?” Bernie seemed surprised as Dan shook his head. “Oh, how _did_ you survive? What are they raising there?”

Dan smiled at the humour in the man’s tone. Phil wondered how long he’d gone without watching TV. For him, it hadn’t been too long.

“Anyway,” Bernie cleared his throat. “The kitchen?”

The boys followed Bernie out of the room and across the hallway, heading through another door. In there was the kitchen, again decorated foreseeably archaic. The refrigerator stood frank and tall in the corner and the oven was shoved between the rows of countertop. It all seemed co-ordinated in a strong metal; the kettle, the microwave and the toaster. Elise stood, packing uneaten food away into the cupboards. She smiled and asked, “Have you been upstairs yet, dears?”

They shook their heads.

“We’ll head on up now,” Bernie said whilst returning the smile.

The first room upstairs was the master bedroom, Mr and Mrs Teller’s. It was beautiful, at least Phil thought it was. The bed was ebony and the sheets were an elegant silk with padded cushions propped atop of them. The bedside tables matched with the bed's frame and so did the dresser; Phil was wildly anticipating the state of his bedroom. This house was just so enchantingly decorated.

“You lads will share the room up here, in the attic,” Bernie informed as they mounted up to the third floor. “That sounds rather frightening, I bet. Don’t worry, it’s well lit and you’ve got a side of the room each.”

The fact that they were sharing a room made Phil smile, forced his lips into an expression of such happiness and relief that he had to use his teeth to attempt to stifle it.

Their room followed a familiar pattern to the rest of the house. Neat bedsheets (patterned a soft blue), closed curtains, colour co-ordinated furniture. The roof slanted down as it took the shape of the house. There was a clear split in the room, one bed on one side, one bed on the other. That seemed like a raging negative to Phil, but he figured he should think about it positively; he was sharing the same room as Dan, after all.

The room this boy would come to have for the rest of his life.

“How’d you like it?” Bernie sounded apprehensive.

“It’s really great,” Phil was the first to answer this time. “Everything is so—just so pretty and lovely. I really like it.”

“Thank you,” Bernie laughed. “Elise takes a lot of pride in the house. She says it’s her most treasured possession. She’s put a lot of hours into making it all look presentable up here for you boys. It was just full of junk at one point.”

“She’s done a brilliant job,” Phil praised the kind woman.

“She has,” Dan chirped. “It’s amazing up here. I’ve always wanted an attic bedroom.”

“That’s good, then. We didn’t know if you’d feel a bit secluded up here.”

Dan shrugged. “That’s not always a bad thing.”

That arose a chuckle from Bernie as he shook his head and agreed, “No, no. It certainly isn’t.”

There was a considerably long silence that emerged in the attic air then, as the two children took the time to admire and the man took the time to allow them. Finally, he exhaled a breath he’d been holding and turned back to the door, in one motion.

“If you lads want to stay up here, I’ll head down and bring your cases up. You haven’t got that much, have you?”

“It’s all my stuff down there,” Dan notified and gestured to Phil's bag. “He hasn’t got too much. It can all fit in there.”

Phil gave a nod.

“You both travel lightly, don’t you? There’s only a couple of cases downstairs, it’ll take you no time to unpack tomorrow.”

“Is it alright if we do it tomorrow?” Phil enquired politely.

“Of course,” Bernie clarified. “There’s no rush. You aren’t planning on going anywhere any time soon, are you?”

Phil shook his head with a shared humour. Bernie took that as his cue to leave, departing down the staircase to retrieve the remaining luggage. Dan’s sigh was sudden and unexpected, and when Phil looked at him, he was smiling.

“Are you okay?” Phil asked slowly.

“Mate, I’ve never been _better_ ,” he beamed. “Look at this place! It’s fantastic.”

“It is really amazing,” Phil grinned, on gaping around the room. “Which bed do you want?”

“You take first pick.”

“Dan,” Phil whined. “Don’t put this kind of pressure on me.”

Dan’s laugh hadn’t seemed lighter before that moment. “It’s not that big of a decision.”

“You make it then,” Phil paused. “Please.”

“Okay,” Dan complied simply and chewed into his lip, brooding. A moment scuttled by, before he headed across to the bed on the left side.

“You sure?” Phil posed.

Dan nodded. “I’m left-handed, so I figured I’d have the left.”

“You’re left-handed?” Phil walked across to the spare bed and dropped his bag onto the mattress. He felt unprincipled for ruining the neat folding, but didn't think much of it. He placed Lent's number safely on his bedside.

“Yeah,” Dan confirmed, sitting himself down. There wasn’t that much distance between them. “That’s why my handwriting’s terrible.”

Immediately, Phil was opposing. “Your handwriting isn’t terrible. It’s better than mine.”

“As _if._ ”

“You’re too negative,” Phil accused with a tight frown.

“I haven’t smiled this much in years, Philly,” An appropriate grin was swallowing up the words as Dan spoke them.

“I like seeing you happy,” Phil said, quieter. His voice was vulnerable. “It’s been a while, you know. I haven’t known you for long but you never smile like this, like, you never have around me and it’s nice. It’s always nice to see people smile, but your smile is—it’s a really good smile, a really big one and—Wow, I sound like a _proper_ idiot.”

Blush was rising onto Phil’s cheeks at his idiocy in front of the boy. _Why couldn’t he just stop talking? Why did he never know when to stop?_

“You don’t. I like it when you ramble, it makes you seem silly,” Dan’s smile was significantly milder. “A good silly, obviously.”

Phil fiddled with the corners of the cotton bedsheets. “I ramble a lot.”

“It’s okay. It means you’re smart.”

“It doesn’t.”

Dan nodded. “Does. It means your mind keeps working so you keep talking. You never stay on one idea.”

“Well, you’re much cleverer than me and you don’t ramble.”

“I do sometimes. And I’m not cleverer than you at all, I don’t know anything.”

“Dan, you do. You know crazy things. You read really fast and make it seem like everything is important and . . . ” Phil’s voice faded as he became aware of the silence in the room. He added a small, “I think you’re really clever,” to close off his statement.

Before Dan had the chance to reply (he did have the chance, he just seemed a bit at loss for words from the spur of compliments), Bernie entered the room again, dragging two suitcases along with him.

“Sorry I was a while, it was a nightmare getting these up those stairs,” He was breathing heavily from the physical exertion. Phil felt bad for not offering to help, but he stayed quiet.

“Thanks,” Dan took the cases and rested them against the wall near his bed. Bernie wiped the back of his hand over his forehead, searched the air for a breath and then moved back across the room.

“Right, are you alright to get ready for bed yourselves? You know where everything is—The bathroom’s just the door on the second floor that I didn't show you. Sorry about that.”

“It’s alright,” Dan dismissed. “Thanks, Bernie.”

“Not a problem, lad. If either of you have trouble sleeping, come find us. You know where our room is,“ Bernie paused. “Otherwise, I’ll see you both in the morning.”

The boys chorused a quiet “goodnight” as the door shut softly on Bernie’s exit. 

Phil thought about the man for a moment, thought about his mannerisms and his contradicting appearance and his tendency to begin sentences with the word “right.” So far, Phil was fond of him. He seemed willing to offer more of his personality than Elise—but maybe that was just Phil’s opinion.

“They seem really lovely,” he spoke and Dan looked over. “Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, they do. I feel so lucky, you know?”

“Hhm?”

“We’re lucky. Because we could’ve had somebody so much worse. Some adults can be really nasty,” Dan’s voice waned at his closing sentence, grew weaker but somehow darker. It sparked a feeling in Phil’s stomach that made him feel sick.

He didn’t know how to do anything but agree in that second so he muttered back a pointless, “Yeah,” and watched Dan look away. Everything felt thick, suffocating. _Are you alright?_ clawed its way up Phil’s throat but he couldn’t get the words out. They weren’t needed, not really. The answer was present in Dan’s hand moving through his hair and in his carefully beating chest that whispered patterns of _no, no, no._

><

Dan and Phil took separate turns in the bathroom. Dan went first, changing into pyjamas (that took forever to find) and brushing his teeth whilst Phil waited upstairs. And then they swapped places, with Phil changing and brushing his teeth and Dan getting under his sheets. When Phil returned, he unraveled the crumbled piece of paper with Lent’s number scrawled on it and left it on his bedside. It felt like years, but eventually, they were both settled.

Phil watched Dan lean across and switch on the little lamp at his bedside, as if checking it worked, then flicked it off. Phil did the same.

(Not that he was copying Dan, just that he had such wonderful ideas sometimes.)

After some time, Phil set himself against his pillows. He slipped his arm underneath his head as a means of support and faced the window, where light was sprinkling in from the gaps in the curtains.

“Hey, Phil?” Dan whispered.

Phil stretched up, his attention fluttering over to Dan’s bed. The boy was sat, face dashed with a shadow.

“Yeah?”

“Does this mean we’re brothers now?”

Phil hadn’t really thought about what adoption meant for their relationship. He wasn’t entirely sure if it would really change anything between them—like, the way acted around one another—but he knew they’d have to identify as _related_ now. That seemed so weird to Phil; he didn’t know what it was.

“I guess so,” Phil whispered back. “But I don’t know if, like—Well, that’s so weird, don’t you think?”

“I suppose. You’re still my best friend though,” Dan replied. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Of course,” Phil’s voice dissolved and silence floated to the surface. He took a breath and added, “Always,” waiting for it to take all the air from the room. It did. 

It was a statement, but it was a true one. It was a promise. Phil couldn’t see anybody ever taking Dan’s place, ever forcing themselves into the spaces he’d created and even if they did, they wouldn't be half of what he was. Nobody could ever be half of what Dan was.

“Goodnight,” Phil finally spoke again, pulling the sweet-smelling sheets up around his little face. There was a rustling from the other side of the room.

“Night.”

><

The first thing Phil did the next morning was head downstairs to the kitchen. He saw that Dan’s bed was empty when he finally rolled out of a thick slumber and that sparked his urgency. In loose-fitting pyjamas and colourful socks, he left the attic in search of company.

Upon entering the kitchen, he found sight of Bernie, Elise and Dan. Bernie was sat flitting through a newspaper before a plate of crumbs, Elise was drying her hands with a towel beside the sink and Dan was smiling around a piece of toast.

“Morning, dear,” Elise greeted attentively.

“Morning,” Phil returned, lips up in a tired expression. “Sorry, I’m up late.”

“It’s no problem, lad. Come and sit down for some breakfast,” Bernie pulled out the chair between he and Dan, and Phil headed over. He slipped down before the table and Dan gave a smile, one he repaid.

“You’ll have to have toast today I’m afraid, dear, we’re out of milk this morning. Bernie’s got to go down to the shop and get some in a bit,” Elise said, pushing the plate of fresh toast towards Phil. He took off two slices with a small, “Thanks,” and Dan gave him the butter.

“Is there anything you boys would like to do today?” Bernie asked. “School’ll begin next week, there’ll be a wait for you to get registered. You’ve got a bit of time to kill.”

“You can always go down to the shop with Bernie today,” Elise chirped. “He can show you the way down a few side roads and things.”

“And then I can drop you off at the playground whilst I shop.”

Dan smiled, speaking his first words of the morning in Phil’s company. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Yeah?” Bernie looked at Phil.

Phil took a bite from his toast and nodded. “I’m up for it.”

><

The playground was compact and seemingly abandoned. Whether or not it was vacant because of the fact that it was a weekday and that particular hour, the apparatus wasn’t ‘up to date’ or just if that the town wasn’t very populated, Phil didn’t know.

Whatever it was, there was nobody there.

“The shops are just up the road, I’ll only be about half an hour. Would you like me to bring you both a drink back?” Bernie had his hand on the park’s gate, hat on his head and coat zipped up. There was a biting chill in the air that day.

“If you don’t mind,” Phil said. “Thanks.”

“Course not, it’s great to have you to spoil,” Bernie chuckled. “After you’ve unpacked later, I can show you those records, Dan?”

Dan nodded and his face lifted in eagerness. “Yeah, please.”

“Great. Make sure you stay safe and don’t leave the playground. I’ll see you both in a bit,” Bernie turned and Phil watched him cross over the road, making his way briskly down the path.

The playground looked like a little ghost-town before them. A drowsy fog was inked in around the edges and the sky was grey above it. Phil had never seen such a picture.

“Well, it looks like we’ve got the place to ourselves,” Dan said, and they broke off into a close walk. “Do you think any of this stuff is actually stable?”

“I don't know if I’m up for the risk,” Phil admitted. They slowed near the swing set, and he wrapped his little fingers around the rusting wire. “It looks like nobody’s been here in decades, Dan. Look at this.”

“Maybe everybody in this town is as old as the Tellers.”

“We’re the Tellers now,” Phil pointed out, and Dan gave him a look that was too heavy for the easy mood. “ _Dan Teller_.”

Dan sighed. “That’s gonna take some getting used to, Philly.”

Phil’s heart jumped like an irritating twitch at the name Dan had seemingly become custom to using. “Yeah, same. I really like them though.”

“Me, too,” Dan agreed and pulled on the swing's wire. “Hey, this seems fixed. Shall I try it out?”

“I wouldn’t. You might snap it and break a bone or something.”

“I don’t weigh _that_ much, Phil.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, I know, mate,” Dan grinned, cheeky and expecting of the immediate justification. “I know.”

An embarrassment flushed over Phil’s body in a weak florid. Dan seemed to want to ignore it, and so did Phil.

“I’m just gonna try sitting on it,” Dan recited his actions, perching himself on the very edge of the swing. When he seemed comfortable with its capacity, he shuffled himself back and kicked his legs, rocking.

“Dan, be careful,” Phil’s voice verged on a warning.

“It’s fine, it can handle me,” Dan insisted, looking up at the older boy. “Trust me, Phil. You trust me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Phil had never said anything so honestly in all his life. He’d give Dan his heart because he knew he’d keep it safe.

“Well, then. Take a seat,” Dan patted the swing next to him.

Phil held his breath as he sat himself down on the swing. Giving the weight from his legs to the apparatus, he gripped the wires tightly and tried not to think about the faint creaking. After a moment of stillness, Dan urged, “You’re supposed to swing on a swing, Phil.”

“Okay, okay,” Phil pushed himself steadily, digging his heels into the ground at every opportunity. It seemed as though even the little movements were going to snap and break the framework, but it didn’t. It managed to hold through Phil’s carefully timed swings.

“If this breaks now,” Phil began. “I’ll sue you.”

“Sue me?” Dan's words were overshadowed by a giggle. “Please.”

“I’m serious,” Phil tried to sound sincere, but failed astoundingly. He breathed out his solemnity with a wide smile.

“Are you nervous for school?” Dan digressed, washed with a composure.

“I don’t really get nervous,” Phil confessed. “I usually just get on with things. Like, when I was coming to the orphanage, I was more excited than nervous. I like to think of things as a fresh start. I suppose you were right about me being happy-go-lucky.”

“Phil, we are _so_ different.”

Phil smiled. “Are you nervous?”

“Of course I am. It’s easier for you because you’re likeable. You’re nice and kind and funny. You don’t have to worry about these things because people automatically like you. But they have to work to like me, it doesn’t happen naturally,” Dan was concentrated on the light kick of his heels against the ground. “And that sucks. It makes me all awkward and anxious and stuff. I hate it.”

Phil’s attention was strung on every word. “It can’t be that bad.“

“It can. It’s just that there’s so much of me to like,” Dan added quietly. “So much more than what other people have.”

“That isn’t a bad thing though, is it? It can’t be, surely. It’s not like you’ve never had friends.”

“I’ve only ever had a few. You included.”

“But they’ve been good friends, yeah?”

Dan nodded.

“Exactly. Maybe having more of you to like makes it mean more. When you find a friend, it means more. It’s much better to have a couple great friends than a whole bunch of terrible ones.”

Dan chewed on his lip, like he didn't know what to say to that. “It’s horrible though,” he muttered. “Having so much baggage is scary. I’d have to find someone incredibly special to still like me after all that.”

Phil, not for the first time, found himself wondering about Dan Howell and all that he was keeping locked away. He pondered on their time together so far, thinking about how he hadn't found much out about him at all. Of course, they were still friends, but Phil felt like he was telling the biggest lie ever.

“Have you ever—Has anybody ever—” Phil struggled to find the right sequence of words. “Does anybody know, you know, everything? Have you ever told anybody all of it?”

Dan shook his head slowly. For a few seconds, that seemed like all he was going to give. But then he scratched the back of his neck and whispered, “I can’t, Phil.”

“It’s okay,” Phil said, soft and consoling. His fingers quivered to touch him. “Don’t feel like you have to. I’m not going to ask. I said I’d figure it out, didn’t I?”

“But there’s more than just him, Phil.”

“Who?”

“Sammy,” Dan forced the word out from between almost closed lips. “It’s not just him. God, I wish it was but it isn’t.”

Again, Phil wanted to ask the boy if he was okay. The answer always seemed to be the same, and neither the question or the response needed to be said. Everyday, a piece of wood was added to the burning fire, building the flames higher, higher, higher.

“I’ll figure it all out, Dan,” Phil promised. “You won’t have to tell me a thing, and I won’t hate you for any of it.”

A breeze fluttered across their faces and the swings creaked. Dan’s smile was lopsided and chilling, made Phil think more than he ever had.

“I don’t think you know enough to figure half of it out. I don’t think I do either.”

><

When Bernie returned a little over thirty minutes later, he was carrying two bags of shopping. Dan and Phil hadn’t moved from the swings; there had been the suggestion of trying out another piece of equipment, but they decided they’d leave the risk for another day. They succeeded in lightening the mood, discussing favourite songs and old TV shows Dan used to watch. They also made a plan to come back and play footie at the playground.

“I bought you both some fizzy orange, I hope you’re alright with it,” Bernie handed them both an orange bottle each when they bounded over to him at the gate.

They chorused an assurance that, of course, it was fine.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to get moving back now, I’m worried these bags are going to break on me,” Bernie chuckled. They headed down the path in a close entwinement, and Phil took sips from his orange as he admired the streets clustered with old houses. Did any other kids live in the town? He couldn’t help but wonder what school would be like.

Underpopulated, no doubt. That was probably a good thing.

Still, the town was pretty. People took significant care in their front gardens, it seemed, and a house moderately decorated was one on its own.

Elise was busy painting on an easel in the living-room when they arrived back. She explained that she did the artistry for local companies desperate for sales. She was incredibly good at it, too. Phil watched her alone for a while (Dan insisted he had to get unpacking, or it was never going to get done) and admired the steady stroke of her hand. He was attentive to the small strips of paint and the stretches of shading; it probably should’ve been boring, but he found it remarkably interesting.

Once she decided to take a tea break, Phil joined Dan upstairs. His side of the room was striking and developed, scattered with little pieces of his personality. Books, pillows, long-sleeved shirts.

“That’s really coming on,” Phil acknowledged, shutting the door behind himself.

“There’s still quite a bit to do,” Dan was taking clothes out of an unzipped case.

“I haven’t even started.”

“You’ve only got one bag, mate,” Dan flashed a smile. “You know, if you want to ever borrow some of these shirts, you can. I don’t even like half of them, Miss Leer bought me the majority of them.”

“Is that why you don’t like them?” Phil smiled.

“That and that she had zero fashion sense.”

“What do you know about fashion sense, Danny?” Phil teased, childlike and mocking.

“Enough to know this isn’t cool,” Dan held up a red and green striped shirt with a look of exaggerated repugnance. “I mean, seriously. Bernie would wear this. Who buys a ten year-old clothes fit for a pensioner?”

“Dan,” Phil's laugh was soft and smothered by his hand. “You can’t say that. He’s not a pensioner.”

“He’s old though,” Dan reasoned.

“Yeah, but not grandad old.”

Dan grinned and folded the shirt on his mattress. Phil dragged his bag from under his bed and began to take out his own belongings, laying them out in his designated space. It felt more real than it had done at the orphanage.

“Do you want that shirt?” Dan chirped.

Phil looked at him. “The grandad one?”

Dan grinned around a nod. “Please have it, Philly. The shirt’ll be sad if you don't.”

“Ugh,” Phil made a disgusted sound but crossed the room to take it from Dan’s hold. He muttered a sarcastic, “Thanks,” and dropped it atop of his other shirts.

“You’re too nice for your own good,” Dan told him with a delicate smile.

Phil shrugged. He didn’t think there was such a thing as too nice.

><

Being a ‘pensioner’, it turned out, wasn’t always a bad thing. It, in Bernie’s case, meant you had a lot of good records.

Old ones, but good ones. Brilliant ones.

He kept them in the garage on a dusty rack. They were piled orderly, alphabetically. The sides presented were a rainbow of colours, ranging from monochrome to bright orange. Bernie knelt down on the floor and Dan followed, whilst Phil stood watching from behind.

“Do you remember the covers of any records your grandfather used to have?” Bernie asked the boy at his side.

Dan shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t. But these all look amazing.”

Bernie smiled. “Take your pick, and I’ll play you both one.”

“You pick,” Dan looked up at him. “I want to listen to the best.”

Bernie’s laugh danced through the garage and he aimlessly reached for a record and slid it out. The cover was a solid black and decorated with a triangle and a patterned line.

“Classic, this,” Bernie commented. “Pink Floyd. _The Dark Side of the Moon_. Ring any bells?”

“No, but it looks awesome,” Dan’s enthusiasm was wild on his strongly shaped face. 

“I'll play you the first track, yeah?”

He nodded.

Phil watched as Bernie cracked open the record and slid it onto the player’s platter. He lifted the tone arm and positioned it above the beginning of the record, lowering it. Dan’s expression was a picture as the track built, travelling through the complex introduction to a pattern of instruments that fluttered shivers across Phil’s arms.

_Don’t be afraid to care._

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Bernie’s voice was a whisper. It was like he was afraid to trample across Dan’s already patent connection with the song; the connection that was present in the curve of his lips that were shaped like an o, in the fixated stare of his eyes and the stillness of his chest. Phil almost didn’t want to breathe himself, for the heaviness of an exhale was all too capable of shattering Dan’s inflicted vulnerability.

_And all you touch and all you see is all your life will ever be._

“It’s brilliant,” he managed, and it look like it took a lot.

“This record is fantastic, I love it,” Bernie said, equally as soft.

_But only if you ride the tide._

It didn’t take long for the track to fade to a sticky static, signalling the end. And the air though silent remained oppressive and choking, and Phil had the feeling that Dan was going to talk about this for a long time as he finally spoke, “Can you play some more?”

“Of course,” Bernie reached forward and continued the record.

Dan stole a breath from what the muggy garage was providing. His expressions remained the same (a shocked awe) but his concentration was more prominent as the record played, moving from song to song to song, through prolonged instrumentals and cleverly times vocals. Bernie started up a conversation about the band and about other projects they’d released and Dan’s interest licked at the information.

“You can come here whenever you want to listen to them,” Bernie offered and turned around. “You, too, Phil. Elise and I won’t mind if either of you fancy a bit of music.”

Phil smiled, thinking of Dan more than himself. He knew he’d keep him company on the multiple (undoubtedly) occasions he’d want to come down to the garage. “Thanks.”

“I know I’ll be in here a lot,” Dan confirmed Phil's silent assumptions. “These records all look fantastic.”

“Oh, they are,” Bernie laughed. “My collection doesn’t disappoint, lads.”

><

Dan spoke more about the records that night than he’d ever spoken about anything else. He seemed to have a complete fascination with the creation of art. With individuality and creativity and how one couldn’t exist without the other. It all sent Phil’s heard into a whirl; the way comments of everyone’s an artist, some people are just still learning came accompanied with a delicate amazement.

And Phil sat and he listened to every word Dan spoke, waited between sentence for him to catch his breath. He always had to catch his breath, almost as a reminder to Phil that he was still alive. In every exertion of his lungs there was a soft I’m still here and then a whispered for you running behind. Phil didn’t want the weight of this boy’s existence on his head but the more Dan’s dependency grew apparent, the more Phil’s did too.

On Thursday, they spent the day listening to more records. Pink Floyd dominated the majority of the sound but further on in the afternoon, Dan pulled out a record by a band called Oasis. He said he’d heard of them before and Phil agreed, saying he had also. He had.

The songs were alright. They weren’t much compared to Pink Floyd (at least not in Dan’s opinion) but a track undeniably shone brighter than anything they’d listened to so far. Including Pink Floyd. After it had finished, Dan reached to play it again.

_Today is gonna be the day that they’re gonna throw it back to you._

“This song’s really good,” Phil said. They were sat with their backs up against the cold, stone wall, shoulders together. The sound of the music filtered in at their feet.

“I like it,” Dan smiled. “It’s nice. Comforting.”

Phil turned his head. Dan copied him instinctively and his eyes carried the light falling stray from the bulb above their heads. “You always say the right words,” Phil told him, voice as delicate as the looks on their faces.

“I don’t,” Dan murmured. “Not around you anyway. You make my head a bit fuzzy.”

“How’d you mean?”

Dan’s shrug was slow, controlled. It mirrored his tone. “Just the things you do. What you say. You make me feel different and stuff. You make me think weird.”

 _Confused_ , Phil wanted to rectify. _I make you confused. You make me confused, too. You make my head fuzzy, too._

“It’s not a bad thing,” Dan added, scouring Phil’s face and finding a misleading sense of offence. “You’re not bad. I do like you, Phil—I haven’t been lying.”

“It's okay, I know. I know what you mean, I think. Maybe,” Phil paused. I don’t believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now. “I don’t really understand my thoughts either. Or my feelings sometimes. You make me feel weird, too.”

“Have you felt it before?” Dan sounded poised but his eyes were frightened. “Like, with anyone else? You know.”

“No,” Phil confessed, under his breath. “It’s different with you. Everything is.”

“Yeah,” Dan swallowed. “But it’s—it’s not a bad thing. We just ignore it. It’s fine, Phil—it’s not a big deal.”

There was a tangle of fear and frustration in everything that framed him in that moment. Phil felt paralysed as Dan reached forward and stopped the record, and silence spilled into all the deepest caverns it’d never reached before. It stung in his ears. 

“Dan—”

“Let’s leave this now,” he clambered to his feet, leaving Phil on the floor. “It’s getting kind-of boring, let’s just go and see Elise. She’s probably painting again and you liked watching her yesterday—”

“Dan, stop,” Phil reached for the boy’s wrist and looped his fingers around the skin, pulling himself up to his feet and holding Dan in place at once. A bubble of altitude sickness settled in the back of his throat and he kept a hold on Dan’s arm for stability. There was a stutter of electricity where their skin was pressed, and it felt like the moments of darkness after a power-cut. “What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong? Why are you running?”

“Nothing, Phil, it’s nothing—” Dan pushed his little hands against Phil’s chest to break their physical attachment. “Please, it’s nothing. Leave it. Let’s just go and see Elise—”

“No, Dan—” Phil grabbed his arm again. “Please, tell me what happened. You said it’s not that big of a deal. We make each other confused, it’s fine. It doesn’t mean anything, why are you so scared—”

“I’m not _scared_ ,” Dan shook Phil’s grip forcefully from his arm and Phil’s hand dropped into the space between them. “You don’t understand.”

Phil hadn’t seen Dan like this before. He was venomous and cold, the complete opposite to what he'd been since Phil had known him. He'd been quiet and reserved, yeah, but not this. This was something else. This was like what was left behind when the walls of security had crumbled away. This was like what the walls had been protecting.

“What do you mean, I don’t understand?” Phil tried. “There’s nothing to understand, it’s just—”

“Phil, please,” Dan’s voice quivered around the older boy’s name and he took a gaping step back. The emotion on his face was as obvious a house with no lights left on, empty and calling for attention. “God, I’m doing it again—I’m doing it again, Phil—”

“Doing what again?” Phil forced the words out from somewhere deep and conflicting inside of himself.

Dan blinked and swallowed, chewed into his lip until he undoubtedly drew blood. The clarification was frighteningly low. “ _Sammy_.”

“What’s Sammy got to do with this?” Phil reached and held a tight grip on Dan’s sleeve this time, hoping it was less triggering than his wrist. “Did he make you confused, too? Did he make you feel weird like I do?”

Dan looked like he was ready to be sick. “I don’t want to talk about this. I said leave it so please, Phil, just leave it. You said you wouldn’t ask questions, you said you’d figure it out—”

“Okay, okay, calm down,” Phil hushed, hand still fisting the fabric of Dan’s sleeve. It was fixing him in place, keeping him where he was, and Phil wanted to open his arms and say do you want a hug? but he didn’t have enough syllables on his tongue. “It’s okay, Dan. I’m here, it’s okay—”

Dan put a hand over his mouth and he shook and trembled, like somebody was punching him and he couldn’t move out of the way. He moved himself closer into Phil’s arm and he did it so subtly that neither of them realised how close their stomachs were.

“I’m sorry I got mad, I’m sorry I did that—I’m just frightened to do it again and I hate that I’m almost there and that you make me feel like he did. It’s my fault, Phil, there’s something wrong with me and I keep dragging people down and I’m sorry—”

“Dan, don’t get upset,” Phil slid his hand from Dan’s sleeve around the curve of his spine, flattening his fingers against the small of his back. He was too scared to move. “There’s nothing wrong. You’re just confused, it’s okay. We’re only kids, we're supposed to be confused.”

“It’s a different kind-of confused, Phil,” Dan’s eyes were watering. “A bad kind. And it’s my fault, I get too attached and—and then things go wrong and I don’t want it to happen with you—”

 _Queer_. The resurface of the word shocked Phil’s mind into oblivion. He hadn’t heard it in a while, it felt like it’d been years. Now he felt like he’d just admitted to a dirty secret.

_Bad, bad, bad._

Phil didn’t know what to say. _What could he say?_ So he just stood there in the garage with a sad boy and they laced themselves together without any more than a still hand on a stretch of skin, and the world was quiet enough to hear the frightened whispers of their hearts.

><

Phil didn’t get anywhere near as close to Dan as he had done in the garage for the remainder of the week. It seemed like Dan was putting effort into pretending to be okay, but not for Phil’s benefit. Once the attic door closed on them in the evenings, his strong and capable complexion softened to a deep fragility. They spent Sunday afternoon at the playground, just to get out of the house. They’d spent too long cooped up in the same walls, or so Elise believed.

“How’re you feeling about school now?” Phil asked him, as they sat on the swings again. Sunday bloomed in a midday sky.

Dan shrugged. “The same.”

“You really shouldn’t worry about it, you know? It’ll be fine. We’ve got each other, that’s already a head start. Imagine how you’d feel if I hadn’t come with you.”

“Probably worse, but that doesn’t change how I feel right now,” he muttered.

He’d felt so far away since Thursday and Phil hated it because he didn’t know how to change it, how to help the situation. How to help Dan. He just—he was so weak. He was so broken and his pieces were scattered here, there and everywhere with little or no chance of finding them. The worst thing was that Phil didn’t know why or how this had happened to him.

Phil jammed his cheek with his tongue and watched the way he pushed himself off the ground with his feet. His ears were accustomed to the sound of softly creaking metal by now and the feel of chains under his fingers was cold, harsh.

Phil caught the sight of something moving in the corner of his eye. He looked to the side and found a boy and a girl, around the similar age as them, heading across the grass. They were blonde headed and softly drawn and moved together under the white sky. _Other kids, eh?_

Phil kind-of hoped they wouldn’t acknowledge he and Dan but the chances of that were slim as they were the only ones occupying the playground and, needless to say, they stood out. Still, Phil looked down at the ground as the kids approached and he caught Dan taking a false interest in the skids across the front his shoes.

“Hello.”

As much as Phil had grown to despise greetings, he wasn’t rude. He peered up with a warm smile and returned, “Hi.”

The boy was dashed with a strong and apparent interest. He had a ball under his arm and a blonde strand over his brow. “Alright? Who’re you lads? I haven’t seen you around before.”

“I’m Phil,” Pause. “And this is Dan. We moved in this week.”

“Oh,” The boy made a sound. “You’re newbies, then?”

“Obviously, Tanner,” The girl's interject shocked Phil. “You _just_ said you hadn’t seen them before.”

“Shut up,” ‘Tanner’ retaliated and looked back to Phil. “Have you moved here with your parents?”

“We’re, uh, we moved in with the Tellers. Bernie and Elise. I don’t know if you—”

“Oh, yeah. My dad’s mates with Bernie. He’s a pretty epic dude,” Tanner spoke with a kind-of control and easiness that struck you immediately. He stood with his arms folded, with one leg bent. He was cool. “Are you, like, fostered or something?”

There wasn’t a single trace of mockery in his tone, rather just a flood of intrigue and so Phil pleasantly answered the question.

“Adopted.”

“What’s the difference?”

“A lot,” The girl jumped at the chance to knock Tanner down, to belittle him. She was’t doing it spitefully, as such, and he didn’t seem offended. Rather just irritated. They shared a strange bond and Phil suddenly wanted to know their connection. “You’re just too dumb to know what it is.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re too dumb to know anything other than how to put gel in your hair—”

“Shut your mouth,” Tanner snapped. He huffed as he turned away from her. “This is Abi. She’s an annoying little _brat_ that calls herself my sister. Are you guys brothers?”

“They just said they were adopted by the Tellers—”

“Doesn’t mean they’re biologically related, dummy. Are you?”

Phil looked at Dan. He hadn’t said anything yet and Phil wasn’t sure how to form a response to the question. But at the same time, he was aware Dan’s insecurities plummeted when speaking to somebody he hadn’t before, and the last thing he wanted to do was pressure him. Especially after the way he’s been the past few days. Phil didn’t want them to get any further apart.

“No,” Dan confirmed softly. “I met Phil at the orphanage we attended. We’re friends. Like, best friends. Technically brothers but not really.”

“Oh, yeah, I get you,” Tanner smiled amicably. “That’s cool actually. It’s good you’re mates. Imagine if you’d have been enemies?”

“I know, right?” Phil grinned. “I mean, Dan’s kind-of secretly my enemy anyways . . . ”

Dan laughed, giggled really, and shook his head like he didn’t know how to reply. Phil expected a shoulder bump or a drawn out, mock-offended _hey_ but nothing came. He didn’t know why that made him feel so empty. Disappointed.

“Hey,” Abi cooed with a smile crafting her face, attention on Dan. “You’ve got a dimple. That’s so adorable. I’ve always wanted one.”

“Ew, yuck,” Tanner scoffed with an exaggerated disgust. He pretended to heave, hanging towards the ground. Phil laughed, and the burst of humour evened out the blur of intensity that had twisted up his gut in response to Abi’s comment. “Please, Abi, control yourself. You’ve just met the guy. I’m sorry, Dan.”

“It’s okay,” Dan’s laugh was soft as his cheeks blushed and he chewed down on his lip. Phil’s breath caught in his throat and he flickered his eyes away from the pretty boy at his side.

_Queer._

“Do you guys play?” Tanner dropped the ball in his arms to the ground.

“Yeah, we both do,” Phil answered for them. They climbed to their feet and trailed with ware after the blonde boy as he dribbled to the centre of the grassy open.

“This place being so quiet is actually kind-of awesome,” Abi spoke and when Phil turned instinctively, she was walking at Dan’s side, looking up at him. “It gives you loads of room to play and stuff. There’s hardly any kids that come down here.”

“Phil?”

Phil’s attention returned, shifted away from Dan and Abi to Tanner’s press of his name. He was looking at him like he was waiting for something.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked if you play in goal,” Tanner repeated calmly. “Do you?”

For a moment, Phil let himself think about PJ.

“Oh, no. Sorry. But I can try, if you want—”

“No, it’s fine, man. I haven’t brought my gloves, but I can play. What teams shall we do?”

Phil shrugged. “I’m up for anything.”

“Abi?” Tanner looked behind at Abi, who still stood completely oblivious, chugging information at Dan's face with a fond smile. “Abi, hey! Would you stop chatting him up for one second? We’re trying to sort a game here!”

“Alright, alright,” Abi growled back. “Keep your hat on.”

“I haven’t got a hat on.”

“Exactly, it fell off.”

Tanner rolled his eyes. “We need to sort teams. I’m not going with you.”

“Oh, thank God,” Abi threw her arms in the air and breathed heavy. “I’ll go with Dan. No doubt he’s a better footballer than you.”

“Dan probably doesn’t even want to go with you,” Tanner crossed his arms.

Dan fidgeted with the sleeves of his shirt, then moved his hand up around the back of his neck to rub the skin. He looked uncomfortable, stuck. His face was a soft crimson. “I don’t mind, like—Yeah, it’s fine. I’m alright with it. Yeah.”

“Alright. Whatever suits you,” Tanner shrugged with a sigh. “You guys choose which one of you is going in goal. There’s two holes up there that mark the posts, and two on our side. Come on, Phil. Tactics.”

Phil bounded across to the correct side and stood beside Tanner. He had a feeling this guy would be good; he just had that look about him. Broad shoulders, long legs, fitted shirt with his name printed on the back of it. Whether he was good or not, he took the game seriously.

“Are you a quick runner?” he asked Phil.

Phil nodded. “Yeah, I can sprint a bit. I’ve practised playing a lot.”

“Good, good,” Tanner clapped his hands with a wide smile. “I think we’re gonna be great, man. We’ll win, easy. Abi’s kinda terrible.”

“Dan’s good,” Phil informed gently.

“I feel sorry for him, stuck with her. I wish we could’ve done the three of us against her but that’s a bit unfair, I suppose. Whatever,” Tanner patted Phil’s shoulder supportively. “Just do your best, man.”

“Sure will,” Phil clicked his tongue off the roof of his mouth and kicked his legs up in preparation. He jogged on the spot for a moment as Tanner positioned himself in goal, then called down the grass, “Hey! Who’s in goal for you guys?”

“Me!” Abi shouted back. “I want to go against you in a bit when we swap!”

 _That means you’re against Dan_ , Phil’s mind whispered, low and warning.

“Oh!” Tanner punched the air dramatically. “Way to up the game, sister!”

Phil’s heart tensed in his chest, the strings pulled and threatened to snap. He’d never gone against Dan before, he’d only ever been on his team or at least supported him. He couldn’t bring himself to even look over at him, he just ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the sides of his head.

“Right, then! We’re starting!” Tanner declared.

“Of course you are!”

There was a countdown that increased Phil’s heart rate like a man riding a bike down a hill, and then they began. Tanner booted the ball over to Phil and his legs felt like jelly as he ran with it up the pitch, guiding it with his foot. Dan appeared when he was halfway up the grass, and he stole the ball from Phil’s ankles with a look of _I don’t want to do this_ on his face. He attempted to sneak himself skilfully past Phil, but Phil retrieved the ball again and skimmed past him, breaking into a free run.

Tanner was shouting support from the other side of the pitch. “Yes, Phil! Go, run all the way!”

Abi got herself into position at the sight of Phil heading towards her. Dan took a detour and jumped before Phil, forcing him to halt immediately to prevent a collision.

“Dan, Jesus,” Phil blasphemed under his breath, chest racing. The pair fought for the ball, feet brushing and crashing as they grappled for a taste of victory. Dan’s shoe smashed into the side of Phil’s and it was like a punch in the gut as he pulled the ball away and charged up the green.

“Dan!” Phil didn’t give himself a moment to catch his breath before he was sprinting after him. His name tasted different on his tongue, like acid, like he was annoyed but he _wasn’t_. It was just him thinking competitively but Dan probably didn’t know that—or he could have even been thinking the same.

Either way, he didn’t slow at the sight of his best friend closing in on him. Phil almost wanted to let him score, but he feared Tanner’s reaction.

It was just so ironic that Phil had taught him how to play and now they were at a similar level, they were going against one another. It seemed so wrong.

However, when Phil saw the chance at a breakthrough, he went for it. He dipped his foot down and shattered Dan’s perfect run, stealing the ball for himself. Dan’s grunt of distress snuck its fingers in and squeezed on Phil’s heart.

He kept going.

_Run, run, run._

The ball smacked past Abi’s grip, Tanner yelled in glee, and Phil let himself fall to his knees in exhaustion. He couldn’t bring himself to so much as glance at Dan. He just took the time to catch his breath, clutching his knees with a burning throat.

“Phil, that was _epic_ ,” Tanner laughed, upon approach. “You were both awesome. I had no idea who was gonna win that.”

“I tell you what, that is how you play football,” Phil saw Abi’s shoes in his eye-line and he glanced up at her. Dan was there, too, looking afflicted and distraught and breathing heavy. They both flinched away from a glance in the other’s direction.

“What do you know about football?” Tanner fired back.

“I know enough to say these two are good.”

“Fair enough,” Tanner sighed. “I bet you guys are too tired for another run. Let’s swap up, you in goal, us playing.”

Phil nodded, feeling a tire deep within him. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

He didn’t dare look at Dan as they crossed paths. The air felt strange on his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoyed writing this chapter because of the sort-of, almost conflict towards the end there. It was different and I liked it, weirdly. Anyway, thank you for reading if you did, and try and share this story around more! <3


	10. X

**X**

The boys followed the rules, dragging themselves to the correct positions. Phil had never felt so far away from Dan as he scoured his frame at the end of the grass. He wanted to apologise for scoring, but he didn’t want to look like an idiot. At the end of the day, that was the _point_ of the game. And they should’ve been able to have a bit of competition without falling out.

 _Falling out._ Had they fallen out?

Phil didn’t know how he felt about that. He hated falling out with people anyway, regardless of who they were. That was just who he was. But the possibility of having fallen out with Dan was intimidating, dismaying. They were best friends, they weren’t supposed to _ever_ fall out. It was like whatever was between them was being trampled on, being cracked and broken and the shards were flying everywhere. But as he grew up, he’d find it only made it mean more, only tightened all the knots.

Phil registered he wasn’t really paying attention when he saw the ball glide past him and heard Abi’s triumphant cheer. “Sorry!” he squeaked at Tanner’s gaze. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine, mate,” Tanner laughed. “Are you still _breathing_ from your run?”

“Well, I am kind-of tired,” Phil admitted.

“Wanna call it a day?”

Phil nodded slowly and gave an indefinite laugh. “Yeah, I think that’s best. I’ll make a fool of myself if I carry on.”

Tanner called for Dan and he joined the other three at the gate of the playground. They stood there spoke for a moment or two about school the next day and Tanner said they’d be attending the same one because there was _only_ one. They left with a chorused _goodbye_ , but the only one that Phil really recognised was Abi’s small and sweet, “See you, Dan.”

He didn’t know why he did. But, as they walked back, Phil used it to start up a conversation. To shatter the execrable silence.

“Abi fancies you,” Phil spoke, under the restraint.

Dan looked over at him, face drawn tight in a glum expression. “That’s all you have to say?”

Phil blinked. “What else would I say?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he sighed. “She doesn’t.”

“She does. And what’re you talking about?”

“I said it doesn’t matter.”

Phil slowed. “But it does, though. You can’t just—Dan, hey. Hold up.”

Phil increased his pace to keep up with the boy, who had the ends of his sleeves tugged down in his little fists. It was distinct in everything he was that moment that he wasn’t going to say anything.

“Is it because of the game?” Phil tried. “I didn’t want to go against you, you should’ve been in goal if you didn’t—”

“Well it wasn’t that easy, Phil,” he retailed, cold.

“You’re just moody because I scored,” Phil’s voice appeared with an equal harshness. He felt almost _guilty_ when Dan looked at him, startled for a moment and then straining the structure of his face.

“I’m not moody because of that. I’m not even _moody_.”

“You are. And it’s just stupid, scoring is the whole point of football, Dan.”

Dan shook his head, locked his jaw and walked faster.

“Why’re you trying walk away?” Phil rushed to keep up with him. “Dan, stop it. Please, you’re being ridiculous. There’s no reason to be mad.”

“I’m not mad, Phil!” Dan snapped, voice filtering in sonorously. It racked Phil’s bones and he wanted to note the evidence against Dan’s claim but he didn’t have it in him. Dan’s thin frame was shaking in the cooling air, hair coming down over his face. He pushed it out of his eyes irritably.

“Just leave me alone,” he forced out, but it was much softer, weaker.

“We’re going home,” Phil muttered back. _Home_. It felt like such a lie. “I won’t talk to you if you don’t want me to.”

Dan didn’t reply, and Phil took the silence as the answer.

><

They had cottage-pie and gravy for dinner that night.

Dan and Phil ate quietly but quickly, and Bernie gave them the option to head to the garage again after but they declined. The idea of being in that kind-of enclosed space was horrifying, really. Music made everything seemed to soften around them, drew them closer and fuzzed up their heads. That was either all they needed right now, or all they didn't. They obviously weren’t going to risk it.

They spoke about school with Elise and she informed she’d wake them at six thirty. School started at eight, and they had about a twenty minute drive.

After eating and watching TV for a little over an hour, they mounted the stairs to bed. Dan went to the bathroom first but didn’t notify Phil of his departure. He merely looked up, and he was gone. He returned in pyjamas and with fluffy hair.

Phil washed his face and brushed his teeth and spent his time wondering what it’d be like to sleep in the bath. He knew he was just exaggerating this entire situation, but Dan was _mad_ at him. That fact was of such signifance in Phil’s head.

When he returned to the room, Dan’s lamp was off. He was facing the opposite direction in the bed but Phil knew he wasn’t asleep. He could see from his sequence of breathing.

 _Should he do something? Say something?_ He felt like he needed to . . . apologise.

So he gathered a breath and crossed his fingers before walking over to Dan. Standing at the side of his bed, he cleared his throat, and Dan rolled over to face him. His lips were wet and parted and his eyes were dilated from the shift in light. He looked so lovely.

So lovely.

“Can I sit down?” he asked, instead. It was a whisper.

Dan shuffled over in the single bed and sat up against the headboard. Phil took a seat and crossed his legs, mumbling, “I’m sorry for what I said earlier.”

“What do you mean?” Dan’s voice was dreadfully gentle.

“When I called you moody and stuff,” Phil played with the button on his cotton-space shirt. “I didn’t mean it. Really, I didn’t. You aren’t moody at all, you weren’t—”

“I was a bit,” Dan admitted, shameful. The confession took Phil’s heart by surprise. “I shouldn’t have taken it out in you, like—I should’ve just said well done. For scoring, I mean. I’m supposed to be your best friend.”

“You were sad, it’s okay.”

Dan smiled. “Everything’s always okay with you. That wasn’t. Thanks for saying sorry, but you didn’t have to. I’m not good with, like, breaking the silence. I needed you to say something first. So I’m sorry for getting mad.”

“You admit you were mad?” Phil grinned and poked Dan’s shoulder at his cheeky eye-roll. The shift in atmosphere was relieving, needless to say.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Because you’re a sore loser?”

“It’s not just that,” Dan started chewing on the inside of his cheek. “It was kind-of horrible to see you win. That sounds bad, but not because you didn’t deserve it. It was like confirming that you’re better than me and I just—I don’t know. I really wanna be good at football, Phil. That’s all, that’s why I was upset.”

“You are good,” Phil promised. “I just got lucky today.”

“I feel like a bad person for getting mad at you. You’re so kind,” Dan let their eyes meet, let his gaze linger, and Phil felt everything whole inside of him melt.

“Just don’t get mad again then,” he whispered with a fitting smile. “I don’t like falling out with you or when we’re quiet around each other and stuff.”

“Sometimes my head can be a bit loud,” Dan’s voice digressed, and it felt like a secret. “My thoughts and everything. I think a lot, you know. The same things over and over again.”

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to explain yourself to me. It’s fine, Dan. You’re fine. We’re fine.”

“Yeah?” he breathed.

“Of course, mate. We’ll be friends forever.”

Dan held out his pinky. “Promise me. So I can hold it against you if you ever change your mind. So I can say you promised.”

Phil linked their pinkies and shook them. “There. I’ll die if I ever change my mind.”

“That’s a bit drastic.”

“It’s not,” Phil shook his head. “You promised, too.”

Dan inhaled and leant back against his headboard. “Yeah, I suppose I did. If there ever comes a day when we’re not friends, that’s the day I’ll die.”

“We,” Phil corrected. “ _We’ll_ die. It’s a two-way thing.”

“Of course. Can’t have Dan without Phil.”

The silence that nestled after the words had faded wasn’t at all similar to the one that had plagued their hearts since Thursday. This was one easy, comforting. One Phil could rather simply fall asleep to the sound of.

“Do you really not think Abi fancies you?” Phil shifted the topic lightly.

Dan groaned and buried his face in his hands. When he looked up, his cheeks were a warm red. “Don’t talk about this.”

“Why? She does.”

“Alright, okay, yeah. She probably does.”

“Do you fancy _her_?”

“No,” Dan said quietly.

Phil’s lips quirked, despite his strange feeling inside. “Dan, come on—”

“I don’t,” he looked up at Phil and the honesty on his face gleamed. “I promise, I don’t. She’s not . . . I don’t know, I just don’t like her.”

“At all?”

“No. Not even a little. She seems alright, yeah, nice and stuff. But, no.”

“Do you not think she’s pretty?” Phil was sat on his feet, resting on his knees. It seemed they had a tendency of crossing into one another’s vicinity unintentionally as their skin tingled to touch.

“Maybe a bit,” Dan shrugged, voice trailing along an aimless road. “She’s got pretty, blonde hair and pretty eyes. But I don’t—I’m not sure if, like, she’s pretty _enough_.”

Phil’s childish laugh cracked over the quiet. “Harsh.”

“No, no! I didn’t mean it like that!” Dan huffed, weaving his little hands into his head of brown. He took a breath and forced it back out of his lips in an almost uncomfortable sigh. “I’ve never had a girlfriend before, Phil.”

Phil felt a tightening in the air, a shift, a convulsion. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, grazed the skin between his teeth. “Neither have I,” he admitted. “And I’m older than you. But it’s okay, though. We’re alright.”

“I’m not. I don’t feel enough, I don’t think. For Abi.”

 _Enough_. Phil wasn’t aware what that was, didn’t know there was an expectation or that there ever had been.

“You don’t have to feel anything,” he told Dan, hoping they both found a thread of comfort patterned into the words. “She’s probably just, like, not your type. Maybe you like girls with dark hair and a different colour eyes. Maybe you’ll see a girl you like at school tomorrow.”

Dan shrugged again and a smile shuddered across his face. “Yeah.”

The conversation felt forced and thick. Phil pushed his legs out from the bed and stood up, saying, “We should probably get some sleep. We’re getting up early tomorrow.”

Dan nodded and settled himself down as Phil moved across to his side of the room. They clambered beneath the sheets, wrapping themselves up from the state of suffocation in the air. Phil leaned and switched off his lamp, and Dan did the same, and the room flickered behind their eyelids in an inky canvas.

“Best friends,” Dan whispered into the night.

Phil didn’t know if that was intended, if he meant for him to hear it or not, but he took it and locked it in his heart as his consciousness faded behind a cloudy drowse of sleep. Everything was still, ear-ringingly silent, and Phil wanted to say come over here.

“Always.”

><

Phil woke the next morning with painted nails pushing lightly into his shoulders. He didn’t have to find a clock to know it was six thirty, to know that Elise was waking him for school. He gave a sleepy groan and pushed himself up onto his elbows.

“Morning, dear,” Elise smiled, standing up and flattening down her dress. “I’m sorry to have to wake you, but it’s school today.”

“It’s alright,” Phil shook his head, returning the smile. He climbed out of bed and tucked his sheets in neatly.

“I’ll just be downstairs. Come down when you’re ready, so you can eat and then we get straight off.”

Phil said he would and proceeded to collect his clothes, heading out to change in the bathroom. Dan wasn’t in his bed, but it had been made. Phil guessed he was already up.

He dressed quickly, following Elise’s instruction, brushed his teeth, washed his face and departed down to the kitchen. The fact that Dan was nervous about his school was present throughout breakfast, in the words he spoke and the jump of his leg. They left after a short time, climbing into the car with Elise. Dan’s hand rested atop of the space between them for the duration of the drive and Phil didn’t know why he couldn’t focus on the conversation or why it made him think _bad, bad, bad._

He wished he knew things. More things. Better things. He wished he wasn’t so clueless all the time—it felt like it was only with Dan that he felt so stupid and that was probably true. Dan made him feel confused, after all. Different.

When the car slowed, they had pulled up outside a small building with open gates. Children of all heights and weights and hair-colours and dress-senses were walking through. Some alone, some amongst a group. Phil hated the way his heart seemed to claw at his ribcage, as though it wanted to get out. 

The children made him think of Martyn. He reminded himself of Lent’s number in the drawers beside his bed.

“Here we are then, boys,” Elise turned from the front seat. “You’re gonna love it here. Have a good first day.”

“Thanks,” Phil smiled, collecting his bag and clicking open the door. Dan followed him out onto the pavement and he shut the door after himself.

It was a cool morning and the breeze fitted nicely with the frost crusting in the crevices between Dan and Phil. The sky was sleepy, the blue stitched with cotton clouds. There was a low hum of conversation that accompanied the steady grumble of engines on the small street.

Phil thought he and Dan probably looked quite strange, like magnets were built into the skin covering their hips. But it wasn’t Dan without Phil, wasn’t Phil without Dan and it felt like that had always been the way. Like Dan was all Phil had ever known.

“Right,” Phil said, gripping the straps of his back. “Let’s—”

“Phil, no, hold on a second—I’m scared, wait,” Dan grabbed Phil’s wrist, fastening it between quivering fingers.

 _I’m scared_. Phil’s stomach twisted.

“Don’t be scared,” Phil fought the urge to drop his grip down and lock it with Dan’s. Children continued to flood in around them. “It’ll be okay, you don’t have anything to worry about—”

“Don’t leave me,” Dan’s voice said he was moments away from crumbling to nothing right there outside. “Promise you won’t leave me.”

“I won’t leave you—”

A boy walked past, shoving his shoulder with a significant force into Dan’s so that he almost tripped forward. When Dan turned to identify him, he ducked into a small crowd and filed through the gates.

“Ignore him, he’s just a stupid kid," Phil patted Dan’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “You’re okay.”

“Phil, I don’t think I can do this.”

“Dan, mate, you have to—We haven’t got a choice, we’re here now.”

“Phil,” Dan trembled around the name. “I-I can’t, they’re gonna hate me, everyone’s gonna hate me—”

“No, they won’t. Listen to me, you’re lovely, they have no reason to hate you,” Phil wanted to hug him, pull his shattering frame into his arms and glue all his pieces back together. “Come on, let’s just go inside. Get our timetables.”

Phil tugged gently on his arm and guided him through the groups of children. The entrance was cracked open, leading into a reception. Dan begrudgingly let Phil take him through the doors and they stopped just inside, where it seemed the quietest.

“Are you okay?” Phil put his hands on Dan’s shoulders again to steady him. “Do you want me to go and see if I can get you some water?”

“No, I’ll be okay. Just stay with me," Dan fought for a breath in a raging battle with his lungs. He pushed his hand against the wall as his chest heaved. _Up, down, up, down._

He looked like he was going to be sick. His pale complexion and his cracked lips and his shaking bones and Phil really didn’t want them getting any attention on their first day but if Dan was seconds away from passing out, there wasn’t much he could do. Though it seemed like the last thing Dan needed was people crowding around him.

“Dan,” Phil watched him with careful eyes. “Sit down, come here—Sit on the floor.”

Phil helped him slide down the wall and his bag hit the floor as he reached the bottom with a light thud. Phil knelt in front of him and brushed the damp lock of hair from his face, whispering, “You’re okay, just sit still and take deep breaths. You can breathe, yeah?”

Dan’s inhales came split in two, cracking and breaking in the middle. Phil couldn’t quite believe this was happening but he didn’t give himself the time to dwell on it. Dan didn’t either as he grabbed Phil’s wrist and squeezed, and Phil saw the splutter of panic and _I’m really scared, please help me_ on his little face.

“Dan, it’s okay. Breathe with me, come on,” Phil tried to stay calm for the sake of Dan’s momentary health, despite how he wanted to hug him so tight he’d knock the last breath from his lungs.

Dan didn’t look away from Phil’s eyes once as he made an attempt at mirroring their breathing. He was looking at him like he was a surgeon who’d just completed emergency surgery and saved his life, even though he hadn’t done any of the sort. Dan’s breathing was still ragged and his exhales were chokes, splutters.

“Are you boys alright?”

Phil turned at the scratch of a gruff voice. It was a man in a crisp shirt holding a look of concern and groomed facial hair. He looked formal with his attire and his sharp edges.

“Yeah, I think so,” Phil answered, for them.

“Doesn’t look that way to me,” he approached, voice gentle. He scrutinised Dan’s sweat-riddled forehead and his forcefully moving chest. “What ever’s the matter? Are you not feeling well?”

“He can’t breathe properly,” Phil spoke, hand falling and resting on Dan’s leg.

“Do you have a medical condition? Come with me, can you get up?”

Dan’s struggle in moving was present but Phil was there, supporting him, hands pressing against his body. His knees buckled and his feet slid every so often as they followed the man down the corridor, into a room with the sign Mr. Brasier hung on the door. Phil assumed it was his office.

“Here, come and sit down. I’ll just go and get you some water,” Mr. Brasier gestured to the two chairs in the corner of the room, beside a desk and a computer. Phil accompanied Dan in following the command as the man quickly left through the door. Dan continued to breathe fast, uncontrolled, like his grip was slipping even looser.

“I don’t need water,” Dan choked, wiping a little hand across his wet face. “It’s just—I can’t breathe and it’s scary, you know, it’s—God, I can’t—”

“Dan, you just have to calm down. Let’s get your bag off so it’s less weight for you,” Phil reached around behind his head and pulled the straps from the boy’s shoulders, dropping it on the floor. He’d forgotten where they were, forgotten what was important. Nothing seemed to matter but Dan in the present moments.

Mr. Brasier returned fairly swiftly with a glass half full of water. He handed it to Dan and told him to take careful sips from it.

“You boys are new here, aren’t you? I haven’t seen you around before,” he said, sitting down at his desk but keeping his eyes on Dan. “A bit of first day anxiety, is it?”

“He’s never been like this before,” Phil told him, feeling like he had to defend his best friend from some form of mockery. This wasn’t like Dan.

“Do you have anxiety? What’re your names?”

He asked too many questions for Phil to keep up, clicking away at his computer.

“Dan Howell and Phil Lester,” Phil answered again. He flicked his eyes to Dan as he rounded his lips around the glass and took a slow sip.

“Dan and Phil Teller,” Dan corrected, in a quiet and hoarse tone. His voice sounded tired.

 _Oh, yeah._ Phil’s cheeks flushed.

“Ah, yes. I’ve got you right here. I’ll print your timetables off for you now,” Mr. Brasier said. He looked up from his computer, eyes instantly on Dan. He drew his eyebrows together. “Keep sipping that, little guy. You don’t look too well at all.”

He didn’t. He was as white as a sheet, but his cheeks were pink. The edges of his hair were curling from the beads of sweat.

“Should I give your guardian a ring?” Mr. Brasier offered. “I’m quite worried about that breathing. Did you say you have anxiety?”

“I don’t know,” Dan whispered.

“Hhm?”

“He said he doesn't know,” Phil repeated for him.

“Well, I think it certainly looks that way. Was it the kids outside that got you all worked up?” Mr. Brasier reached for his phone. “I'll give someone at home a ring. I think you should get that checked out. Maybe get it under control.”

So Mr. Brasier rang Elise and she said she would come back, that she’d be about twenty minutes. Dan was told to sit quietly and focus on his breathing and Phil was told that he could find his first lesson, since they’d been given their timetables.

“Don’t go, come back with me,” Dan whispered, quiet enough for just them to hear. He looked at Phil with helpless strings of hope and trust and Phil realised he didn’t want to leave him.

“Um,” Phil cleared his throat. “Can I, um, can I go back with Dan? I’m really worried about him, he might have to go to the doctor and I—”

“I suppose that probable attack a bit of a shock for you both. I’d know, my daughter has quite severe social anxiety. It can be awful for everybody sometimes,” Mr. Brasier responded, voice slicing through Phil’s attempt at an explanation. “It should be no problem for today, it is your first day after all. But make sure you show tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Phil nodded, certain.

“I’m going to hand this important file to the receptionist. I’ll only be a minute, would you like me to bring you some more water back, Dan?”

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Alright. Keep watching that breathing.”

He left with a click of the door that told his exit.

“Thanks for that, Phil,” Dan managed to speak with a levelled volume.

Phil smiled. “It’s alright. Thanks for getting me out of school.”

“Yeah,” Dan’s smile was small but surprising nevertheless, pulling sweetly at the corners of his mouth. He seemed to have gained some internal control. “I thought you’d be impressed with me.”

Phil looked down at his shoes. The white coating the sides was scuffed and bruised and it made him think of the playground, the match, Harrison and Abi. There were fragments of PJ in there too, little touches of him and his personality and _I’m sorry we left without saying goodbye._

“So anxiety, huh?” Phil spoke as a means of distraction.

Dan breathed in through his nose. “I don’t think so.”

“Mr. Brasier sure seems to.”

“Who?”

“The guy, the teacher,” Phil nodded at the door that still spoke of his departure.

“How’d you know this name?”

Phil tapped the side of his nose, reticent, and Dan gave him a look.

“I read the name on the door when we came in,” he surrendered. “Mr. Brasier. He seems important, don’t you think? He could be the headmaster. He had all the phone numbers and names and stuff on his computer.”

“You don’t know if that’s actually Mr. Brasier. He could’ve, like, hacked in. Maybe he didn’t even ring Elise—maybe he—”

“Do you like doing that?” Phil stopped him with a fond smile, sprinkled with a bizarre affection.

“What?”

“Going to extremes,” Phil studied Dan, looking at him like his brain was a box somebody had told him not to open. “Your head really is a messy place, isn’t it?”

Dan tapped his fingers against the glass and looked at a piece of art stuck to the wall with a strip of sellotape. “It can be. Sometimes I wanna take it to pieces and find out what’s wrong with it. I suppose I wouldn’t know where to look.”

“That’s be weird but cool, if you could do that,” Phil commented. “I’d help you look.”

“Thanks. Just—The anxiety thing, you know? That won’t help anything if I do have it.”

“You probably don’t. That’s never happened before, has it?”

Dan shook his head. “But it could be developing. Something’s always developing with me.”

“You’re still developing,” Phil told him softly. “Growing. Like a little flower.”

Dan’s cheeks tinted red, flushed a warm pink and he looked so alive. “I’m not a flower, Philly.”

“No, like, I meant—” Phil stumbled. “You’re still growing. You’re still only little, you’re probably meant to not understand yourself yet. It doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.”

“They might want me checked out though,” Dan murmured, coming down from his embarrassment.

“Who?”

“Bernie and Elise. I feel so guilty, they probably wanted two perfect children and—Well, they got one,” Dan flicked his eyes to Phil and Phil felt his entire body ignite, felt little pricks push up under his skin. “But I’m letting the side down a bit. Like always.”

“You’re not, don’t be ridiculous. What makes you think I’m any better than you? I’m no where near perfect, Dan, I could be loads better. And it’s not your fault even if you do have it. You didn’t ask for it and you can’t change it.”

“But I don’t want it.”

“It doesn’t matter if you want it or not, if you have it, it’s not gonna go away,” Phil spoke slow, hopeful that the words would learn to swim to Dan's heart instead of sinking to his stomach. “If you can’t change something, you just have to learn to live with it.”

The sentence seemed to reach the intended place. Dan’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his eyes tracked to the floor. It seemed like you’d get an electric shock if you touched the side of his head and Phil almost said stop thinking before he realised that probably wasn’t possible for Dan. 

“Yeah—Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

Phil smiled, softening and loosing up the air. “I usually am.”

Dan’s lips tugged. “You’re not.”

“When have I not been right?”

Dan shook his head. “Shut up.”

Phil didn’t have the time to account for his success in lightening the mood before Mr. Brasier was walking back into the room. He gave the boys a smile and slipped down onto his desk, telling them Elise wouldn’t be too long now.

She wasn’t.

In fact, she arrived earlier than she’d stated. She came clicking across the floor in a strike of panic and took Dan's little face in her hands with a surprising softness. “Sweetheart,” she said. “What ever happened?”

“I’m not really sure. I just—I couldn’t breathe and I was sweating and—”

“Was it the crowds out front, do you think? I saw there was a lot of children there.”

“I don’t know,” Dan admitted.

“It’s never happened before,” Phil chirped, like he knew this boy better than the lines on the palms of his hands. “He was really scared.”

“I should think you were, dear!” Elise brushed her thumb over his cheek and Phil didn’t know why, but he wondered how many people had ever paid Dan this much attention.

“It sounds a lot like anxiety to me, Mrs Teller,” Mr. Brasier spoke, and she turned to look at him. “The symptoms are similar to the ones my daughter had when it first started for her. He was incredibly shook up when I saw him; I’d recommend a trip to the doctor.”

“No, of course. I’ll see if I can get you in today, probably this afternoon,” Elise stood back. “Come on, let’s get you home. No doubt you need some peace and quiet, and that Bernie wants to see you.”

“I’ve given Phil the permission to go home, too, Mrs Teller. He was shaken by it all, as well. Anxiety can be a tough thing for kids, especially to the extreme that Dan’s could be.”

“That’s fine, I’d have had to have taken him anyway. Both Bernie and I will want to take Dan to the doctor, so there’d be nobody to pick him up,” Elise settled and the boys stood in synch. She patted their shoulders, edging them to the door.

“Oh, Mrs Teller, would you mind just quickly filling this out for me? We’re missing some information from the boys’s documents.”

“Of course," Elise said. “Boys, I’ve parked just outside. Go on out and wait by the car, I won’t be a minute.”

Phil followed Dan obediently out of the door. He shut it behind himself and they started off down the corridor. It was quiet, vacant. Weird. Everybody was in class, no doubt, but it still felt strange.

“Do you think she’s mad at me?” Paranoia had its grip on Dan’s voice when he spoke.

“No way, she’s just worried. Too worried actually. Mind you, that’s probably what happens when you lose a child. You get overly concerned about everything.”

“Yeah,” It was like Dan had just remembered what happened to them. “They’re probably both like it, aren’t they?”

“Yo—Dan, Phil!”

The boys stopped and turned at the sound of their names through the otherwise silent corridor. Tanner was making his way down towards them, walking beside a girl with impressively long, dark hair and holding a file in his hand.

“Hey, Tanner,” Phil greeted and Dan echoed the same.

“What’re you doing?” he asked, stopping before them and wiggling his eyebrows. “Skipping class on your first day?”

“No,” Phil was quick to put an end to his teasing, probably too quick. “We’re going home. Dan isn’t feeling too good and he might have to go to the doctor, so I’m going with him.”

“Oh, what’s up, man?” Tanner frowned at Dan.

He shrugged, uncomfortable at the confrontation. “Just feeling sick and stuff. I’m sure I’ll be okay.”

 _Sick and stuff?_ Phil figured he didn’t want people to know about his possible anxiety.

“I hope so,” Tanner said with a smile.

“What’re you doing out?”

“Just taking this file to the deputy. My teacher doesn’t trust me, so I’ve got a tag-along,” he rolled his eyes, waving his hand at the girl beside him.

“Excuse me,” she scoffed, accented. “I’m not your tag-along.”

“You wish you were more than that,” Tanner said, under his breath.

And then she thumped him. Hard, right on his shoulder. He huffed in surprise (and most probably pain, too) and gripped his upper arm. Phil caught the humoured smile that slid across Dan’s lips at the fact she’d had it in her to hit him, and watched him put his hand across his mouth.

“Jesus, what’d you do that for?” Tanner yelled at her.

“I ain’t your tag-along, you hear me?” she snapped at him.

He moved his shoulder, flexed it and winced. “Loud and clear, darling.”

The girl stopped then, face settling back to its ordinary simplicity as she looked to Dan and Phil. “Nice to meet you, I’m Cat.”

_Cat._

They chorused a small _hey._

“Cat’s American,” Tanner informed. “Transferred here not long back. Didn’t you?”

She nodded. “England’s cool. Although, some of the people here let the side down.”

“Oh, lay off,” Tanner sighed at her obvious attack. “It’s not my fault you’re so aggressive.”

“Only when I need to be,” Cat crossed her arms, then pushed his shoulder again. “Come on, we gotta get back to class. Stop nattering.”

“Whatever, whatever. Good luck with the doctor, see you guys around,” Tanner nodded to Dan and Phil.

Cat stepped forward then, patently trying to make her way between Dan and Phil. They shoved closer together so their shoulders touched, on instinct, and she gave them an undistinguishable look but moved around them without a word. Tanner followed.

“She’s insane,” Dan said, the moment he was sure she couldn't hear. “American and insane.”

Phil laughed at his statement.

“What?” Dan smiled.

“Nothing,” Phil shook his head, still smiling but now mostly at the boy’s pretty expression. He tugged on the loose strip hanging from his bag. “Let’s go wait by the car, mate.”

><

Elise managed to get Dan in for the doctor for three thirty that afternoon. Bernie tagged along, driving them down to the little building about ten minutes away. Phil knew Dan was nervous, he didn’t have to give any kind-of confirmation. There wasn't a doubt in his mind, not even when they were sat in the waiting room and he answered Bernie with _I’m okay._

When they finally got in there, the doctor introduced himself and then proceeded to ask Dan multiple questions.

_Would you say you worry or overthink so much that it affects your daily life?_

_Is it often uncontrollable?_

_Have you felt this way for more than six months?_

_Do you have trouble sleeping because of these problems?_

_Do you have trouble sitting still?_

_Do you have frequent feelings of fear?_

_Did you feel sick when it happened today?_

_Dizzy?_

_Hot?_

_Struggling to breathe?_

The answers were almost always a soft yes or sometimes. Phil felt guilty and he didn’t know why. He thought Bernie and Elise probably did, too.

“Thank you, Dan. You did really well there,” Dr. Rays said. After taking pulse and heart rates, he folded his hands in his lap and looked to Bernie and Elise. “I’m content enough with Daniel to diagnose him without sending him to a hospital.”

“He does have it?”

The doctor nodded. “It’s something called Generalised Anxiety Disorder. It’s a constant feeling of anxiety or chronic worrying or paranoia. It results in extreme thinking and immediately assuming the worst and the worry is often irrational. It can cause irritability and difficulty sleeping and frequent pains, in your chest or head. Depending on the state of the disorder, it can take an affect on the function of daily life. As Dan is a child, it will affect him more than it will do an adult because he obviously isn’t developed yet and his mind is overactive anyhow.”

“Is there any treatment for it?”

“As of now, I’m not going to give him any medication. Today was the first time he was greatly affected by the disorder, and so I want to wait a while. If it continues to happen to that extreme, bring him back and I’ll prescribe him something,” Dr. Rays answered.

“But he’ll be okay for now?” Bernie didn’t look satisfied with the doctor’s plans.

“Of course, I wouldn’t leave it if I didn’t think he was okay,” Dr. Rays replied honestly and then turned to Dan, resting a hand on his leg. “Listen up then, little man. Whenever you have one of those nasty panic attacks that you did today, you gotta remember to take deep breaths. Slow, deep breaths. Find something to focus on, whether it be your breathing or a wall or something else. Think happy thoughts too, okay? Don’t think negatively. Picture something in your mind that makes you feel happy and safe and at peace. Got it?”

Dan nodded, and it looked like he’d taken the advice in. Even if he hadn’t, Phil had. He figured he’d be there for every one of Dan’s panic attacks, since they never left one another’s sides, and he wanted to know how to help. He didn’t think it was possible for him not to help, when his best friend was struggling to breathe and on the verge of tears because the fear was so overwhelming.

“Thanks again, Doctor,” Bernie shook Dr. Rays’ hand before they left the room, and he said it was no problem at all and to bring him back whenever you think necessary. 

They headed down to the reception in pretty much silence. Bernie and Elise shared a soft conversation behind the boys but stopped to talk to the woman at the desk when they arrived there. Dan’s eyes were heavy and his face was drawn in a portrait of _that wasn’t how it was supposed to go,_ and so Phil reached and slipped his little finger down, wrapping it with Dan's.

He hoped it said _I’m sorry._

><

Phil didn’t know if Dan was _mad_ at him, he couldn’t tell. When he thought about what he’d done wrong, he remembered that he’d said that Dan would be fine. And Dan had probably confided in that because he trusted Phil.

“I didn’t think he’d say you’ve got it, Dan,” Phil told him, as they climbed the stairs to their room. Elise had said she’d call them down in about an hour, when dinner would be ready.

“I know,” Dan murmured. He pushed open the door and headed across the room, dropping down onto his bed with a huff. He put his face in his hands as his little feet rested on the floor.

“Don’t be sad,” Phil whispered, approaching slowly. He knelt down before him. “It could be worse.”

“I know,” Dan said into his palms. “And it will get worse. It always does. This isn’t even bad, there’ll be something worse than this that happens to me in the future because I’m just bad luck and I ruin _everything_ and things are never okay—"

“Hey, hey, stop,” Phil put his hands on Dan’s legs and spoke so gently, he was almost inaudible. “Look at me. Dan, look at me.”

Dan pulled his hands away from his face. His eyes were stinging with tears and his lips were pressed tightly together, as though his mouth was acting as a prevention for a sob. Phil felt a deflation in his chest.

“You’re not just bad luck,” he said, firm. “You’re so much more than that. You’ve got a heart and a soul and a personality that makes you unique, different. You don’t ruin anything, okay, just because things go wrong around you, doesn’t mean it’s on you. It doesn’t mean you’re the one to blame and nobody is blaming you. Nobody but yourself,” Phil reached a small hand up and tucked a lock of Dan’s hair behind his ear. “Can’t you see that?”

“Everybody _hates_ me—”

“No, not anymore. Harrison did and his friends did and maybe you thought Miss Leer did as well, but they’re all gone now. You’re okay now, and nobody hates you—”

“Just because I leave, doesn’t mean they don’t hate me anymore.”

“But you’re never gonna see them again, Dan. They’re nothing to you, they never were. Why don’t you focus on all the people that like you?”

“Like who?” Dan’s voice cracked on a whimper. “Like who, Phil? Who _actually_ likes me? Nobody knows anything about me and so they can’t say they like me, it’s impossible.”

“I like you,” Phil murmured.

“You don’t know anything about me either. You only know what I’ve told you,” Dan let his eyes linger on Phil’s for longer than a moment.

“Are you saying I don’t like you?”

“No, I’m saying you can’t possibly like me if you don’t know it all. You like parts of me, maybe, but not all.”

“Well, why don’t you tell me it all so I can prove you wrong?” Phil looked at him, eyes flickering  over every inch of skin on his face.

“You said you wouldn’t make me say it,” Dan lifted a hand to catch a tear falling quickly from his eyelid. “You said you’d figure it out—stop asking me, I don’t wanna say it—”

“Okay, okay—”

“No, you said you wouldn’t, Phil—you keep asking and—Stop, just stop, please—”

“Okay, Dan, okay. Come here, look, just come here,” Phil wrapped his arms around Dan’s shoulders and pulled him down to the height he was resting on the floor. Dan snuck himself into Phil’s chest and pushed his damp face against his shoulder. Phil didn’t know where to touch or what to say and holding Dan so close made his insides feel like glue, made his thoughts slide together, all incoherent and muddled. Dan’s little fists clenched the fabric covering Phil’s back and he couldn’t describe it as anything but _home, home, home._ Over and over. _Home, home, home._ He couldn’t think of anything else, his mind prevented it, and the word came flooding up his throat like somebody was trying to drown him.

And Phil had gone so long without knowing where home was, what home was, that he couldn’t bring himself to let go. Because Dan’s body was like the bricks, the cement, and his heart and his lungs and everything keeping him alive were all the little ornaments inside the walls that greet you when you open the door and carry nostalgia in their frames. And you buy them from stores but you make them your own and Phil wondered if he’d ever get the chance to make what was keeping Dan alive his own.

“I’m sorry,” Dan said into his shoulder. He inched himself back but Phil had a secure grip on his little waist.

“Don’t,” he managed, and his heart thudded the syllables. “Stay.”

><

Dan didn’t stay for long and neither did Phil. They couldn’t, wouldn’t, were never allowed. Phil couldn’t help but think they would’ve, if things were different. If Dan was a girl, maybe. If they weren’t so scared.

When they broke apart, it felt like they hadn’t. Dan was still all over Phil’s chest and arms and Phil could see in his face that he didn’t want to be anywhere but where he’d previously been. Between the lines of fear on his forehead, there were traces of comfort and safety and Phil almost asked _have you come home, too?_

Phil was still sat on the floor. His limbs felt looser, weaker, like he wasn’t in control of them. The pressure had released somewhat in his chest.

You don’t know anything about me either. The words seemed to mock Phil, circle around his head like a carousel that didn't know when to end.

“Are you alright?” Dan questioned, low and dreading. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—we shouldn’t have—”

“No, it’s okay. I’m okay. It was my fault, I shouldn’t have done it,” Phil swallowed. He knew he should add “and I won’t do it again” to that sentence but wasn’t going to lie to Dan. “I just don’t like it when you cry, you know. It hurts a bit.”

“It hurts?”

“Yeah. Like, here,” Phil drew a pattern on his chest. “In my heart.”

He wasn’t going to attempt to think of a word to describe the way Dan looked at him. He thought not even the greatest writer would.

“You’re so special,” he whispered. “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you, Phil—if anyone has—but you are. You’re special to me anyway. You’re my first best friend, like, the first one that counts.”

Phil thought of Sammy but wouldn’t dare say his name. Not today. “I guess you’re mine, too. I mean, I’ve had friends before but none like you. None as good. It all feels new with you. You make it seem like nobody else has ever mattered.”

Dan nodded, chewed his lip and looked into his lap. “Yeah. Yeah, I know what you mean. It’s . . . different, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Phil took a breath and searched for a way out of this conversation. His eyes found the drawers beside his bed. “I haven’t rung Lent’s number yet. I’m missing Martyn a bit.”

Dan’s smile was small. “Ring him, if you want. I’m sure Bernie and Elise won’t mind.”

Phil pushed himself up from the floor with his palms and walked across to his side. He had a lamp, a book and a glass of water atop of the drawers. He frowned and lifted the book, searching for the crumbled slip of paper.

“Hey, Dan?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you seen the number?” Phil moved to the drawers, opening them and searching through. He put it here. He knew he did.

“What, Lent’s?”

“Yeah, I put it on here and now it’s gone—” Phil felt a bubble of panic increase inside of him. He needed the number; it was his only way to contact Martyn.

“No, mate, I haven’t. Are you sure you did?”

“Positive,” Phil huffed and ran his hands through his black hair. “Dan, it’s _gone_.”

“It can’t have just gone, Phil,” Dan walked across to him and chewed on his cheek, thinking. “Maybe, um, maybe it fell out you pocket on the drive down here?“

“No, I put it on there. I remember I did because I wanted to keep it safe.”

“Okay, calm down. We’ll find it,” Dan repeated Phil’s previous action in thoroughly searching the drawers, both on top and inside. He then searched down the back, squinting his eyes.

“It’s not there, Dan—Oh, God, it’s not there,” Phil’s heart was racing. “How am I supposed to contact Martyn now? I’m never gonna see him again now, he’s gonna think I hate him or something—”

“Of course he isn’t, he knows you loved—love him,” Dan sighed and tried a smile. “Phil, I’m sure it’ll show up. Don’t get so worked up, I don’t want you having a panic attack now as well.”

“Dan, this is serious,” Phil was surprised at the tone of his voice and Dan’s expression said he was, too.

“I know, and I said we’ll find it,” His face had fallen. “Where’s the bag you brought with you?”

“Under my bed, but it wasn’t in there. Like, at all. I never put it in there, I kept it in my jacket pocket.”

“It’s worth a look though, yeah?” Dan knelt down and pulled the bag out from under the bed. Phil watched as he unzipped it and searched the main compartment, then the front and the sides.

_Nothing._

“This is mad, it can’t have just disappeared,” Phil said.

“Exactly. So it’s here somewhere, we just gotta keep looking. Where else could it be?”

“I don’t know, uh,” Phil looked around the room. “Wait, it could be between the pages of the book.”

Dan turned, watching as Phil took the book from his bedside and started shaking it in hopes the slip would fall out.

“ _The BFG_ ,” Dan read with a half smile. “You didn’t tell me you’d started reading that.”

“Sorry, I should’ve—It’s yours, I should’ve asked, I just figured it’d be okay because you let me borrow books before and—”

“It’s fine, I meant you haven’t spoken to me about it yet. The story. Do you like it so far?”

Phil nodded. “Yeah, it’s really great.”

He proceeded to shake it a little more before silently admitting the number wasn’t in there. He put the book back down and sat on his bed, saying, “I have no idea where else to look. If it was here, it’d be where I’ve already looked. Are you sure you haven’t see it?”

Dan, sitting beside him, shook his head. “No, I’d tell you if I had. It’ll turn up. Things always do when you’re not looking for them.”

“But it’s been a while, I need to ring Martyn as soon as I can.”

“He won’t be worried, I’m sure. He’s not stupid, he knows you would’ve rang if you could.”

“I should’ve rang before, when we first got here. When I had the chance.”

“Well, you didn’t so—” Dan shrugged. “You can’t do anything about it now. We’ll look some more. Could it be in the bathroom?”

“Why would it be in there?”

“I don’t know, you went in there the night we arrived,” Dan paused to look up at Phil. “Yeah, stupid idea. Sorry. I’m just trying to help.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Phil replied, feeling a pang of guilt at the helplessness on Dan’s face. “I just can’t believe I lost it. How did I manage to do that?”

“We all lose things, it’s no big deal. I once lost this really important project for school, it was this massive design of London. And I lost it,” Dan said. “Seriously, it was huge. I never found it either.”

“Really?” Ghosts of a smile floated across Phil’s lips.

“I’m convinced someone took it.”

“Of course you are.”

“Honest! There’s no way someone can just lose that.”

“You managed to,” Phil grinned properly, smile spreading from each corner of his mouth. “You’re an idiot, you know?”

“Thanks, you too,” Dan returned the smile. “All I’m saying is, we all lose things. Stuff happens for a reason.”

“You believe that? That everything happens for a reason?”

Dan sighed, like he needed to take a moment, and played with the fray on his sleeves. “Yeah. I think—I think there’s no other way. We’re here and we exist and our future’s are planned out, even if we don’t know where we’re going right now. There’s always a reason for why things happen, sometimes we just don’t find it. Or don’t want to.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” Phil came to a slow realisation. “Sometimes we aren’t wise enough to figure out why. We know it’s happened and we know we can’t change it. But we don’t know why. We get an answer in time, or we don't.”

“Yeah, that’s it. There’s things I’d like answered.”

Phil thought it was a bad idea to ask him what it was, if he took into consideration what had just happened. He’d cried, a lot, and Phil didn’t want to see that again. Ever again.

“Dan,” Phil said, and the word was weighted. He looked at him with his brown eyes, and Phil thought _home, home, home_. “I’m here if you need to talk, you know? Whenever you like.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dan flicked his eyes up and down, across Phil’s shoulders and up to his face. “Thanks, Phil.”

><

They weren’t allowed out to the park that night. Elise said Dan should take it easy, and that she wanted to keep an eye on him before school tomorrow. So they ate dinner and spent their evening in the garage, listening to song after song after song. Dan never looked more at peace as he did when he connected with a song; music seemed to find a reside in him, settle in a place Phil hadn’t yet found.

But Dan did that thing where his eyes glazed over, almost, and he sat with his back against the wall with a cloudy head and he looked so pretty. He always looked so pretty. Phil imagined carving the word into a tree, forest waking around him. And, God, he almost said it, he did.

_You’re so pretty, Dan._

The words tasted like blood in the back of his throat as he coughed them away.

Metal. Cold. A dangerous red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dan battling anxiety at such a young age is obviously a difficult thing. When a child suffers something like this, it’s undoubtedly a tough thing for them to cope with.
> 
> I find it really hard to express feelings in anything aside from my writing, making these little notes a challenge for me. But there’s a lot of development and mystery in Dan’s character and I don’t know how to describe him, or give you anything, but just the plea to continue reading so you see him explained in a much more . . . sophisticated way <3


	11. XI

**XI**

That next morning, Dan and Phil clambered into school without a complication. Elise watched them through the gates like she wouldn’t rest if she didn’t see they were safe, and Phil stayed close to Dan, aiding him through into the school.

Upon retrieving their timetables from their rumpled states in their pockets, they had a bit of a nasty realisation. Phil’s first lesson was Math and Dan’s was Science.

“Brilliant start,” Dan’s voice echoed through Phil’s thoughts. “Could it go any better?”

“Hey, it’s not that bad. Look, we both have History second lesson,” Phil compared, finger hovering between the second boxes. “At least we’re together in some lessons.”

“Shall we just change schools again and see if we get lucky that time?” Dan joked with a cheeky smile.

“Ugh, no. Too much stress.”

“You sound like an eighty-year-old woman,” Dan shook his head. “I don’t know what I make of this school. I liked the other one better but maybe I’m biased, I attended it for years. And this uniform's really irritating. Itchy and stuff.”

“Yeah,” Phil tugged at his collar. “But we gotta do this, there’s nothing we can do. Just gotta go with the flow, that’s what Martyn always says.”

“Your brother’s a clever dude,” Dan smiled. “Knows how to make life easy.”

“He always has done, even when we were kids. Things used to go wrong and he’d say that it didn’t matter because the sun was gonna come up anyway. It was gonna rise tomorrow no matter what happened today and that was never gonna change. No problem in the world is big enough to change fate and that's how you measure the seriousness of it.”

“Wise,” Dan responded. The texture of his tone was smooth, constructed with a softness. “And true. Life goes on, eh?”

“It does. Remember that,” Phil took a breath, clearing his head. “I gotta get to class. See you in second lesson, yeah?”

“Yeah, enjoy yourself.”

Phil’s lips curled as he walked away and he shook his head in a laugh.

><

Phil sat beside a boy called Chris in Math. He was pleasant, seemingly, although first impressions were never not deceiving. They spoke about comics and superheroes and the things Phil remembered he and Dan used to talk about. They’d exhausted the topics now, however, and it was surely impossible to find a comic character they hadn’t plucked to pieces of detail.

Later, Phil found that Tanner was also in their History class and he urged the two guys beside him to move from their seats so that there was room. He seemed to have a lot of control over the class (without being _mean_ ) and Phil knew being friends with him was going to work in their favour.

Whether that was a heavy-on-the-conscious favour or not, it wasn’t yet stated.

“I see you survived the doctor, Dan,” Tanner grinned as they sat down. “How was it?”

“It was alright, no big deal.”

“No medication or anything?”

Dan shook his head.

“Good to hear,” he smiled. “You guys wanna come play out today after school? It’ll probably just be Abi and I again. I do have friends, I swear, the majority just have really strict parents who don’t let them out when they have homework and garbage like that.”

“Yeah, we’ll play out. If we’re allowed, obviously. I’m sure we will,” Phil answered, on behalf of Dan also.

“Great. We can have another match, you guys are awesome at footie,” Tanner complimented. “And, don’t worry, I’ll have Abi this time. She can’t play to save her life, so I’m not gonna dump her on you again, Dan.”

“It’s fine,” Dan laughed, but there was a spark in his eyes that said he was relieved he wasn’t going to be playing against Phil. And Phil wondered if he shared the same spark.

If it wasn’t there, he reached beneath the table and squeezed Dan’s leg to confirm it. Dan gave him a smile as a young, brunette woman entered the class and the noise died down like the death of a fire.

><

School passed as it always did, always had done. It flared blandness and dejection in Phil, again common feelings arising from the tedious lessons, but his spirits were booted right to the sky when they arrived home and were granted the permission to play out.

Bernie asked if they wanted him to walk them down to the park, but they said they’d be fine. He told them to be safe and they left through the front door.

“Do you think they’re overprotective?” Dan pondered as they headed out of the gate. It wasn’t an offensive remark, rather just intrigued.

“Who, Bernie and Elise?” Phil replied and Dan nodded. “No, not at all. They’re just—Well, they have reasons to be. It’s a sign that they love us anyway, it’s not a bad thing.”

“Never said it was,” Dan smiled. “I kinda like it. It’s a good feeling having someone care about you and showing that they do.”

“Yeah.”

It was a delightful afternoon in Scotland. The streets were meandering and the leaves crusting a brittle orange beneath the paling sky. It all felt so peculiar, walking down there, with Dan’s shoes pattering lightly against the pavement beside him. It felt new every time, as though the town was reborn whenever Phil closed his eyes to blink.

“It’s always so quiet,” Dan muttered. “Don’t you think?”

“It’s nice. Peaceful.”

It was. Phil had never been anywhere like it in his life and it was such a contrast from London, where he’d spent quite a while recently. But he preferred this. He preferred the quiet. The peace. Birds drove messages in distinct sounds above their heads, fluttering between trees and casting shadows with their wings.

“Tanner’s there,” Dan said and Phil stumbled out of his state of mind, locating Tanner behind the park’s gate. He was stood beside Abi, and they grinned together when they saw Dan and Phil approaching.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” he said.

“Nah, we managed to get out,” Phil replied simply. The park was as much like a ghost-town as it was the first time. “So, we playing a match?”

“Yeah. Me and Abi against you and Dan,” Tanner dropped the ball and kicked it into position.

“Hey, who decided that?” Abi’s face creased down in disapproval.

“Me,” Tanner told her. “And they agreed. Dan doesn’t want to play on your team just because you fancy him.”

“I don’t!”

“Whatever,” Tanner rolled his eyes. “Let’s get into position.”

Phil followed Dan up the green, pulling on his arm. “Hey, do you want me to go in goal?”

“Um,” His eyes fell to Tanner in the distance. “Yeah, would you? I’m terrible.”

“Aren’t you always?” Phil bumped his shoulder as a smile trickled across his lips and he moved to find position.

“Abi’s going in goal, which means I’m gonna have to go against Tanner,” Dan called to Phil. “Great! Can’t wait for that!”

“You’ll be fine,” Phil clapped his hands. “You got this, mate! Just get the ball and sprint, okay? Like you did before.”

It didn’t take long for Tanner to begin the match. Phil’s heart thumped as he watched Dan grapple with him for the ball in close combat. It was similar to it had been with Phil, and it became apparent that Dan was a very good defender. Incredibly good. He knew how to prevent and hit back at an attack and he knew how to do it well.

Phil loved watching Dan play. Watching him sprint, the bones moving in his back and his legs and his knees grazing against the floor when he went for the low, dangerous tackles. 

Tanner ended up scoring two and Dan ended up scoring one. It was an undoubtedly exhilarating match, packed and overflowing with an equal share of luck and skill but on the last few minutes, something happened. Phil doubts he’ll ever forget it, and at the time, it was possibly the worst thing to happen. To either Dan or Phil.

As Dan and Tanner wrestled for the ball, their feet got tangled and Tanner’s fingers caught the sleeve of Dan’s left arm when they fell to the floor, tugging it up.

Scars.

Purple. Red. White. They were as rough and irregular as Phil remembered they were the first time back in the bedroom at the orphanage. It was a cold, heartless reminder that Dan wasn’t all he seemed. There was so much to him, so much more than just a pretty, sensitive boy. He wasn’t just a name or an identity anymore to Phil. He wasn’t just the front cover of a book, he was all the loose, fraying pages and Phil needed to find a way to read the illegible story.

It wasn’t that he needed answers, it was just that Dan needed _help_. Probably. He needed a friend and it wasn’t enough to just be there in existence for him.

It never would be.

Phil knew that at eleven.

He saw the marks before Tanner did, he was sure, but it didn’t matter who saw them first. Of course it didn’t. The only thing that mattered was the look on Dan’s face and the low, “Jesus,” that slipped from Tanner’s lips.

Dan yanked his sleeve back down and shuffled himself across the floor as Phil ran over, scooting away from Tanner’s heavy gaze. He looked scared, almost, looking up through cold eyes and his voice had never been so viciously frightened as it was when he laughed and breathed, “What?”

“Dan, I—” Tanner pushed his palms against the grass, sitting back upright. He was still dragging hard breaths out of his lips, spurring from his run. “What happened? To your arm.”

“What do you mean?” Dan squeaked, his mask shattering.

“All the scars and—Did you—Did someone—”

“No,” Dan snapped. _No, no, no._ Phil couldn’t figure out how that word was attached to Dan and these horrible marks. There was a lot of words attached, really, when Phil thought about it; frightened, aware, impotent.

He kept looking at Phil, as if saying _help me_ and _don’t ask me_ simultaneously and so Phil stepped forward despite how his legs felt like jelly, despite how he could've crumbled to dust any second.

“Oh, we saw this dog yesterday,” Phil told Tanner, a bitter-tasting laugh shuddering through the explanation. “After the doctor. He was a massive thing, he was, and he jumped up Dan and scratched all his arm. Didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Dan managed a formidably convincing smile that made up for the lack of emotion in his voice and it was scary how honest it looked. “It hurt real bad. He was really aggressive and stuff but kind-of cute, too.”

“Damn,” Tanner bought it, or at least seemed to. “I used to have a dog. They can be a bit wild sometimes, can’t they? Mine never hurt anyone though.”

“That’s—That’s good,” Dan looked up at Phil. _God, his eyes._ He looked so bleakly _terrified_ and Phil didn’t know how to do anything but stand and stare. His everything itched to help, to comfort.

It all felt so suffocating in the strong breeze.

“We probably gotta get back now anyway,” Phil said instead, back at Tanner. “We need to eat dinner and stuff and I got a bit of homework to do.”

“That sucks, man. But, sure. Same time tomorrow, yeah?”

“Sounds great,” Phil smiled. Dan scrambled to his feet and scurried across the green, darting before Phil. They escaped out of the gate, Phil shouting, “See you tomorrow!” over his shoulder as he went.

Behind the metal frame, the street was fake, and wrong. Artificial. Dan kicked at stones and watched them fly into the road and he kept his sleeves pulled firmly down past his fingers.

_What was he supposed to say?_

Phil was sick of not knowing, frankly. He was sick of being so clueless and trying to decipher what the scattered fragments of Dan’s identity spelled out. He just couldn’t arrange them into the correct order.

“Just for the record,” Phil uttered, soft, reserved. “I’ve seen them before. Your . . . marks. Back at the orphanage, a while ago. I’ve known for a bit and we don’t have to talk about it, I just—I wanted you to know that I know. That I already knew.”

There was not but a twitch in Dan’s composure.

The air grew fainter.

><

As Phil climbed into bed that night, it felt like the afternoon’s events had been injected into his bloodstream. Been painted across the strip of space between Dan’s heart and Phil’s heart.

And it hurt, it did, like it always did when Dan was in pain. It was such a grim and woeful thing.

Phil flicked the lamp off without a _goodnight_. He wasn’t intentionally trying to push him farther away than he’d already been swept, he was just carefully in where he was treading.

When Phil thought about the scars, he could only conjure up Harrison’s name. Because he was aggressive and he was nasty and his hate for Dan was a supposedly needless rage. Burning and seething across the cracks in evil. But maybe Phil only assumed it was him because Harrison was the only name he knew. He didn’t know Dan’s past, how he got to the orphanage or how Sammy was important or how many people had let him down or how he came to be the equivalent of a polluted blue sky.

Phil was so out of it, he didn’t even realise Dan was laying down right beside him until he felt a brush of hair against his neck and a weight on half of his body. He flinched in the darkness—gathering his wits—and rolled over in the dark to wrap a weak arm around Dan’s shoulders. His heart was smashing every letter of _scared_ into his ribcage but he wasn’t prepared to let his inner fright come between him and Dan’s long for comfort.

Half of Dan’s little body was pressed against Phil’s, with his hands in tight fists resting on his chest. Phil tried so hard not to think about how they shouldn’t have been doing it, instead thinking of how warm and soft and safe Dan was curled up at his side. He smelt like coconut shampoo; like he had done the first time they’d gotten this close.

“Your hugs are the best ever,” Dan whispered, sniffly and thick. 

“Ever?” Phil returned, gentle. There was a squeeze of panic on the last syllable, but he concealed it.

“Yeah, ever. They make everything go away—make me feel okay again, no matter how much I’m not,” Dan was pushing the words out into the space between Phil’s shoulder and neck. He felt a fracture of warmth through the chill of fear in him at the fact that he was maybe fighting some demon attacking in Dan’s head; it made him feel not so hopeless after all.

“I didn’t know you’d seen,” Dan’s voice wobbled, cracked, and he was most definitely crying. “I had no idea, I’m sorry. They’re so ugly, I’m so sorry you saw—”

“Hey, stop,” Phil hushed him, flattening a hand over his dark hair. He felt the curls all soft under his fingertips and his heart pumped out of control. “They’re not ugly at all, they’re just another part of you—I have a scar on my leg, you know, from when I was learning to ride my bike. When I was really little. It’s big and horrible but I’m not _ashamed_ of it.”

“But I didn’t fall off my bike,” Dan whimpered. “I didn’t, Phil—I hate that I didn’t. Why didn’t I—Why couldn’t it just be that?”

“I’m not gonna ask how you got them—I told you, no more questions. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, okay? They’re your scars on your skin, promise me you won’t let anyone convince you they have a right to knowing what you don’t want them to,” Phil whispered, hand still faint in Dan’s hair. His insides were crying out. “Promise me, Dan.”

“I promise,” he said into Phil’s shoulder and shifted himself impossibly closer. Phil dropped his arms around his waist and squeezed him so tight, like it was the last time. Two children. Two boys. A safe place.

It was quiet for the longest time and silence pooled in Phil’s ears. A familiar shine of light filtered in from between the curtains.

“I’m sick, Phil,” Dan’s words were so sudden and unexpected that Phil’s heart rate peaked again.

_Sick._

Phil thought about the closeness of their chests and Dan’s head on his shoulder, hair on his neck. _Sick._ He thought about all the times he’d attached the word pretty to Dan’s features and all the times he’d almost exploded because he wanted to be so close to this boy, always so close. _Sick._ He thought about Harrison and his vocabulary of dirty words and—

_Sick, sick, sick._

“You’re okay,” Phil told him, slow. “We’re okay. Just go to sleep.”

“I don’t wanna leave yet,” Dan’s voice came in a soft plead. “I don’t wanna, can’t I just—Just a little longer, Phil—”

Phil reached down and carefully draped the bedsheets over Dan’s body. He was so tiny and precious and Phil was probably so, so sick, too. But he told himself it was okay for now as he wrapped Dan up in the sheets and ran a final hand through his hair, whispering, “Sleep,” like a gentle command.

Dan sniffed once, twice, and Phil felt his heart settle, slow to a steady pace inside his ribs as if it, too, believed it was okay.

Phil heard Dan yawn right up by his ear before he pushed his head back into his neck and carefully fell asleep right there, breathing on Phil’s skin. He was warm with Phil’s arms around him but Phil hoped he was warm enough; he wished he could give him so much more than a hug and a body to sleep against but for now, this was enough.

It was Dan and it was Phil and it was enough.

><

The emptiness that ached within Phil when he woke up smoke volumes. He rubbed his eyes and pushed himself up against his pillow, seeing Dan packing his school bag in the corner of the room. Back on his side.

“Morning,” Phil greeted, kicking his legs out of the bed.

“Oh, hey,” Dan smiled at him.

 _Why did you leave?_ Phil ached with the question, but it was an awful one.

“Are you okay?” he asked instead.

“Yeah,” Dan nodded. “Just putting this homework away. I have English first, so that’s good. How’re you?”

“I’m fine," Phil answered, slipping out of bed and moving to gather his uniform. He didn’t like how they were pretending it hadn’t happened, that Dan had slept in Phil’s bed and they weren’t acknowledging it. But Dan seemed to like it better that way, pretending things didn’t exist, and so Phil let him continue. Anything to hold his smile up.

“That’s good. I’m gonna head down for breakfast now, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll just get changed and come down. Save me some toast.”

Dan grinned as he crossed out of the room, and Phil’s chest stuttered. “No promises this time, Philly.”

><

Over the course of the next couple of weeks, Dan and Phil became creatures of habit. They woke up, they dressed, they washed, they ate breakfast, they went to school, they came home and played out. They spent a lot of time listening to music, too.

Every day at school, they’d sit with Tanner, Chris and Tanner's friends (who were decent) for lunch. Chris turned out to be a pretty cool guy and he started hanging around with them at the playground after school. At some point, Cat started sitting with them too, and she took a shine to Dan and Phil. She was hilarious, it turned out.

Phil got glasses after a while of struggling to read the board at school. He had cool blue ones and he and Dan signed their names on them with this pot of white paint they found in the garage.

Phil didn’t find Martyn’s number and the long to hear his voice grew as the days flicked by.

They didn’t talk about Dan’s scars, not once, but every couple of nights, he’d crawl into Phil’s bed, hands reaching out for him and tears wet on his face and Phil would let him sleep there at his side, running a hand through his hair to calm him down. He always slept better when Dan was there beside him, and they never seemed to wake once they’d fallen into a slumber.

Dan didn’t have anymore anxiety attacks, at least not to the extent he had done previously. He occasionally found himself in a panic over crowds or children being children and Phil would have to tell him that it was okay, promise him that _he_ was okay.

Phil existed as Dan’s reminder. Dan’s best friend.

Nearing on towards the end of the month, they had a day off school, and went down to the park to meet Tanner, Chris and Cat. Abi occasionally tagged along too, but she wasn’t present that day.

“I’m sorry, but there’s no way I’m playing football,” Cat declared at the ball at Tanner’s feet.

“It’s okay, nobody asked you.”

“Come on, Cat, we always play,” Chris rolled his eyes at the girl. “Just stay in goal or something.”

“Did you not hear me? I said I’m not playing,” Cat turned to Dan. “You’ll do something else with me, won’t you, Dan?”

Tanner laughed, beyond his years. “Suggestive.”

“Shut up,” Cat slung her arm around Dan’s shoulders as Dan smiled—smudges of etiquette in the turn of his lips—and said, “Sure. What do you wanna do?”

“We’ll play on the swings and see if we can snap the metal.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dan seemed amused at the unlikely suggestion and looked at Phil. “You coming, mate?”

“Phil’s staying and playing with us. We’ll do a three-way kick around,” Tanner clung to Phil’s arm and dragged him with Chris to the centre of the grassy open.

“God, she really gets on my nerves,” he said.

“Who, Cat?” Chris grinned. “Same.”

“I think she’s alright,” Phil admitted with a simple shrug. “It’s just her . . . personality.”

“Her personality _sucks_ ,” Tanner emphasised the final word with a force. “And she’s got Dan wrapped round her little finger.”

Chris shrugged. “She fancies him, probably.”

“Seriously, that kid is too good looking. And oblivious. He doesn’t even see it when he walks down the corridor at school and the girls, like, drop at his feet. He could have any of them, if he wanted.”

“I’m sure he just isn’t interested,” Phil spoke up, eyes flickering to where Dan stood at the swing set, mid-laugh. “In Cat or Abi or anyone. He’s kinda care-free.”

“He won’t be like that when he grows up,” Tanner followed Phil’s eyes. “He’ll be having every girl and we won’t get a look in.”

“He’s not like that,” Chris said, before Phil could. “He wouldn’t do that. He’s too nice.”

“He is nice,” Tanner agreed. “It doesn’t seem like he has a bad bone in his body, does it? That’ll work well with girls, too. They love that stuff.”

Phil hadn’t looked away from Dan yet. He was tangled in a bright expression, standing in the centre of the playground with a laugh caught in the back of his throat, and Phil thought about all the times he was told not to look directly at the sun.

“Come on,” Tanner urged then. “Let’s play.”

><

Later that afternoon, Tanner invited everyone around to his place for lunch. Dan and Phil agreed to come, but said they had to go back and change first as they were pretty muddy from the football (the game Cat eventually joined in on).

And so they did. They headed back together, bounding up the street with significant springs in their steps. They greeted Bernie and Elise with bright smiles and information on what they were planning to do, then moved on up the stairs.

“We can do that homework when we get back later, we’ll have enough time,” Dan said to Phil as he pushed open the attic door. The room was as peaceful and sleepy as it always was, light waking lines of dust up in the corners.

“Alright. It’s only a page of writing anyway, it won’t take long,” Phil replied as he searched for a fresh shirt and trousers.

“Speak for yourself,” Dan laughed.

“Hey, can I borrow some socks?” Phil peered over at him. “I got all mud in my shoes and my others are in the wash, the load Elise did this morning.”

“Sure, there’s a whole bunch of them in the second drawer,” Dan gestured to the drawers beside his bed. “They’re not as cool as yours though, not even a little. Most of them are just black.”

“You like mine, then?” Phil smiled as he walked across the room, arms full of clothes.

“Yeah, they’ve got comic strip patterns on, haven’t they?”

“Yeah,” Phil laughed at Dan’s precise detail as he dropped his clothes momentarily on his bed. “Didn’t realise you paid so much attention to my socks.”

“Sorry,” Dan’s cheeks blushed and he fiddled with his sleeves. “I just like them.”

“It’s okay—You can borrow them anytime, mate. We could do a swap one day,” Phil curled his fingers around the correct drawer and pulled it open. “You know, like, my socks for yours.”

Phil reached for a dark pair of socks pushed against the side of the drawer. He lifted them and noticed a white slip of paper, indented with folded lines and a scribbled number.

_Was it—No, it couldn’t be._

“Oh, you’d want to go all dark, would you?” Dan continued to talk, _oblivious_ stuck to his forehead. “I mean, I’m up for it, but black doesn’t really fit your colourful—”

His gush of words fell paralysed on his tongue at the sight of the slip of paper between Phil’s fingers. He closed his mouth and opened it again, then cleared his throat. It looked as though he was trying to form Phil’s name.

“It was in there,” Phil informed slowly, finger pointing aimlessly through the air. “Lent’s number.”

“Oh,” Dan paused, drew his face into a frown. “Was it? I didn’t—How’d it get in there?”

“I don’t know,” Phil swallowed. He was thinking about all the times he could read a lie on Dan’s lips like words in a novel and why he was having such a hard time doing it now. His voice came soft, distant. “Did you put it in there?”

“Phil—Of course I didn’t, why would—I mean, I’d never stop you talking to Martyn, I didn’t know it was in there—”

“Dan, don’t lie to me,” Phil sliced through his pathetic ramble with a dangerously low demand.

“Phil,” Dan breathed, and he took a step closer. Then another.

“Just tell me why you put it in there.”

“I didn’t—”

“Dan, just tell me why. I know you did, there’s no way you can say you didn’t. I haven’t been anywhere near your side of the room with the number,” Phil paused for control. “It’s okay, alright, it’ll be okay if you just tell me why you did it. I’m not mad.”

“You’re never mad,” Dan almost whispered. “It’s one of the reasons I like you so much.”

Phil tried not to let himself get caught in the mess the gentle words made of his head. Instead, he closed his eyes, chewed on the inside of his cheek and retaliated, “One of the reasons you _did it_?”

“No!” Dan squeaked. “No, Phil, it’s—I can explain.”

Phil stared at him.

Sensing the situation, Dan took a breath and sat himself down on the corner of the bed with cautious eyes. “The orphanage is a bad place. All orphanages are, Phil. They ruin everything. I mean, sometimes they can be good, but they’re terrible most of the time. And I just—You had a chance to get away and I didn’t think you should’ve been keeping ties with it so—”

“So you put the number in your drawer?”

Dan nodded slowly, looking down to his lap and over to the wall and the window and everywhere but Phil’s gaze. It was all a bit like motion sickness, if that made any sense.

“Dan, this is my only way to contact Martyn. You know that, you’ve known it all along—It wasn’t about the orphanage, it was about my _brother_.”

“I know, I know that, Phil,” Dan rushed. “I just thought you should let go, you know—”

“No, I don’t,” Phil said, lips thin in a tight expression.

“I’m sorry,” Dan’s voice was so honestly weighted around the apology. “I was gonna give it back, I swear. I was gonna slip it into your drawer or something but you started looking for it and I just—I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t mean for this to happen, I made a mistake and I tried to fix it and I messed up—”

“Yeah,” Phil interrupted, harsh. “Why would you even think of that? It’s just cruel, it’s nasty—You’re nasty for doing that.”

“Phil, I’m sorry—I said I’m sorry, please don’t be mad,” Dan stood up from the bed and moved closer, but Phil was already shuffling back steps, hip hitting the corner of the drawers.

“How can I not be mad? You just—You took it and I know you said you were gonna give it back, but how do I know you’re telling the truth? How can I know you weren’t just gonna let me grow up without ever talking to Martyn again?” Phil was struggling to figure out Dan’s reason for doing this. Letting go wasn’t a good enough excuse, Phil knew that. There was something more, there had to be. Probably something pushed deep in his past, a bad experience. Maybe he’d found it was better to let go because the things he’d had had made him believe that.

Maybe he’d gotten so used to letting go that the idea of somebody trying to hold onto anything was just wrong. But Phil’s head was a chaotic blur and he’d given up on trying to arrange it. He’d figure out a reason why, just not _now._

“Don’t you trust me?” Dan dared to push the words into the air.

“I don’t know, I did,” Phil admitted, swallowed the taste in the back of his throat at the look on Dan’s face.

“You can’t seriously believe I’d do that to you, Phil—I shouldn’t have done that, I know I shouldn’t but I’d never let you lose connection over it—You’re insane to think I would—”

“ _I’m_ insane? You took the only connection I had left with my brother and hid it from me!” Phil finally let his control crumble beneath a raised voice, a burst of rage on his childlike face.

“And I said I was gonna give it back!” Dan yelled, equally as loud.

“You think that makes it okay? You still took it, Dan! You still helped me look for it and let me panic and—”

“I said—”

“I don’t _care_ what you said! I was there for you when you had that anxiety attack at school and when you found out you had it and when you cried over your scars and—”

“That’s got nothing to do it with it, Phil!” Dan was close enough to push his little hands against Phil’s little chest. Little and little and— _We were just kids, Phil. We were just kids._ “You’ve got no reason to be mad anymore and you’ve got no reason to bring that up!”

“Yes, I have! Just because you don’t like it—Do you think I like this?” Phil waved the number. “I can’t believe you kept it from me! You had so many chances to give it back like you say you were going to—”

“I was! Phil, you’re getting mad over nothing now, this is ridiculous—”

“No, _you’re_ ridiculous—” Phil jammed a finger into Dan's chest. “You were just jealous I was gonna keep in touch with Martyn because he’s my real brother and not _you_!”

“That’s not true,” The words shook a stillness in Dan and his eyes grew heavy, harder, colder. Like there were men inside there building his walls right back up. “That’s not true at all and you know it.”

“Just admit it—”

“I’m not admitting anything! I’m not jealous, I know he’s your brother—I’m not trying to take him from you, Phil,” Dan’s voice cracked. “I’m not, I swear. I made a mistake and I’m _sorry_ —”

The door opened, and Tanner, Chris and Cat pushed through Dan’s crying feeble apology. Phil wasn’t sure they were even standing in the bedroom, his vision was so muddled with the dulling anger. It had gotten too much there.

“Bernie sent us up, he said you were still getting changed,” Tanner said, with a strong frown. “What the hell, guys? Why are you both screaming?”

“He took something from me,” Phil looked at Dan.

“And I gave it back,” Dan snapped.

“No, you didn’t. I found it in your drawer—You lied to me and let me panic and you’re supposed to be my best friend.”

“Guys, just stop,” Cat snapped, eyes darting between them. “You can sort this out. What did he take?”

“Nothing," Phil answered, quick. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Phil, I’m sorry,” Dan hadn’t looked away from Phil once, not even for the half a second it took to determine who it was entering the room. “Don’t be mad at me, please. I said sorry and you’ve got it back, let’s just stop now.”

Phil shook his head. He exhaled with closed eyes and picked the clothes up from Dan’s bed.

“Where are you going?” Chris asked as he passed between them.

“I need to change,” he said, effortlessly simple. He held the slip with the number in his tight fist. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

><

Tanner’s house was the largest of its kind and it was clear that his mother took pride in the careful decoration. She was pretty, his mother, with blonde hair falling in a light curl past the blades of her shoulders. Abi was sitting watching TV in the living-room and Tanner told them to ignore her as he bounded up the stairs, expecting them to follow. They did. He had a clear hold on the group of people, a significant grasp on them for whatever reason. His elaborate character, probably.

Phil wasn’t really thinking clearly. The conversation steered occasionally in his direction and he tried his best to appear enthusiastic, hoping his friends could look past the bleak undercurrent that was shaded in the corners of his voice. Tanner and Chris played video-games on Tanner’s console whilst Dan and Cat admired from a distance, and then they swapped.

Phil was trying, he was. He had Lent’s number in his front pocket and swore he could feel it burning there on his thigh, flames licking across it in a kindled reminder. He felt a crawl of guilt run across the stretch of skin covering his ribs every time he looked at Dan; _I’m sorry I shouted, I’m sorry I said what I said, I’m sorry I hurt your feelings—_

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

Phil knew he shouldn’t be sorry because he wasn’t in the wrong, not really, he hadn’t started the argument and he hadn’t lied. He’d never lied, about anything. That was always Dan. And it wasn’t right that Dan had the ability to make him feel as though he was always having to apologise for something, whether it was his fault or not. But he _was_ sorry. He’d shouted at him and he’d made him sad and maybe this was because they were best friends or maybe just because Phil cared for Dan so much. But he’d really do anything to see him happy, even if the feeling wasn’t often reciprocated.

“Are you sure you don’t want a go?” Tanner pushed the controller into Phil’s line of gaze.

He shook his head with a smile. “No, I’m good. I like watching. Thanks though.”

Tanner just nodded and turned himself back to the screen. Dan was sat on the floor beside the TV, looking up at Phil with _please talk to me_ written all over his little face. Phil nibbled on his lip and let his eyes soak into the painted wall behind Dan.

He went back to trying not to think about it.

><

Tanner’s father had set up a water slide in the garden before he’d left for work that morning and Tanner’s mother said they were all welcome to go out and play on it. Tanner, at first, had deemed it too ‘childish’, even though it was massive. Then he’d insisted it was too cold out (despite the peculiarly high temperatures) but he quickly changed his mind and, as none of them had any swimming costumes, they all headed out in their clothes.

It wasn’t really a big deal.

Phil assumed Dan would be happy about the clothes, sleeves continually pulled down over his hands even as he splashed water at Chris in a spirited defence. Abi decided to join them after a while, forcing herself into every conversation Dan started and so Phil stayed close to Cat, away from them.

“Is it important?” Cat suddenly questioned, ends of her hair darker from the splashes of water.

Phil frowned at her.

“What he took from you,” she cleared Phil’s suspicion.

“Oh,” he sighed, eyes on Dan. “Um, yeah. Kinda. It was more that he lied to me and let me panic about it for so long.”

“Hhm,” Cat hummed. They were sat in the water and Phil watched her hand move slowly through the flowing ripples. “I don’t know him half as well as you, but I’m sure he didn't mean for it to get to where it did. I think he realised his mistake too late and struggled to fix it. He’s like that, isn’t he? He struggles a lot with what’s right, what he should do and what he shouldn’t. He’s quite interesting, I think.”

“There’s a lot I don’t know about him,” Phil admitted. “He took something from me because he said I had to let go. He said it was best to let go but that wasn’t his decision to make.”

“Maybe letting go is all he knows. For you, it’s a terrible excuse, but for him, he thought he was doing something good. He thought he was helping you.”

Phil shrugged. “I don’t know, Cat. I don’t want to just make excuses for him.”

“I know, and that’s okay,” she said softly. “But you said yourself that you don’t know anything about him. Some people, you know, they’re so damaged they don’t know right from wrong. This friend of my mom’s had a terrible childhood and she grew up into even _worse_ person. She wasn’t nice to my mom but she loved her a lot and she always said sorry. I know you don’t want to make excuses for him but some people need excuses.”

Phil watched the words pour from her lips as though she wasn’t a child sitting in a paddling pool. She was anything she wanted to be in that moment, wisdom polished on her face.

“He likes you a lot,” she continued. “You can tell by the way he talks about you and looks at you. If he’s gonna listen to anyone, it’ll be you, so just try and help. Try not to get mad at him next time. I know it’s annoying and I know it can make you so angry, but you have to try and understand. Just remember you don’t know everything about Dan, like you said, and there’s probably things he’s keeping back.”

“I told him I didn’t trust him anymore,” Phil’s voice was so shamefully heavy with guilt. He felt so out of place beside such a mature person.

“Do you?”

“I don’t know—Maybe. I like him, too. I like him a lot and I just . . . ”

“You just, what?”

Phil didn’t look up at her eyes, didn’t even really move his lips as he voiced, “I just want to fix him.”

Cat stared and Phil could feel her eyes burning right through him, but she eventually looked away and sighed.

“Well,” she said. “You can’t fix something if it isn’t broken, dude.”

Phil tried to find the meaning in the simple response, tried to find some solace in the words. 

“Just go talk to him,” Cat told him. “Go on. I’ll go see Abi.”

Cat clambered to her feet, water sloshing around her and Phil watched her go. She said something to Abi and the pair followed one another around the back of the slide, as though they were preparing to head down.

Dan stood by himself, confused for a moment, until Phil tugged on his arm and he turned directly to his face. His eyes softened and his voice fluttered in, careful around the edges. “Oh, hey.”

“Hey,” Phil mumbled, hands fiddling with the loose threads around his pockets. “Listen, um—I just wanted to say, like—”

“Phil,” Dan interjected, eyes on Phil’s pocket.

“No, Dan, listen—”

“But—”

“Dan, look, I’m trying to say sorry here, the least you could do is listen—”

“No, you idiot—” Dan stepped forward, hand slipping into Phil’s pocket and pulling out a soaking slip of paper, numbers smudged and colour running.

“Oh, God!” Phil squeaked. “I didn’t—I forgot it was in there, I—”

He reached for it but Dan stepped back, out of the pool. “It’s okay, I’ll fix it. Come here,” he tugged Phil’s arm and they rushed across the garden to the extravagant, glass table in the centre.

Phil gaped over his shoulder as he flattened out the slip as best he could under the sunlight. The numbers were watered down, entirely illegible and blurred together. Phil could’ve _cried_. He felt like such an idiot for not realising he’d left it in his pocket.

“Look, it’s drying already. It’s so hot out today, it won’t take long,” Dan looked at Phil. “Hey, don’t be sad. It’s okay—Look, it’s fine. It’s gonna be fine.”

“It’s not, it’s ruined,” Phil rubbed his head. “I can’t even read the numbers anymore.”

“I can,” Dan said. “I can make them out. We’ll let it dry and then you can call him when we get back, alright?”

“But—” Phil took a breath. “But I can’t read them, it’s impossible.”

“We can figure it out, Phil. I promise you’ll speak to him, okay, nothing’ll stop it,” he whispered. “I won’t let it.”

Phil stared at the slip of paper on the table, water soaking out in a jagged rectangle around the outside. “Thanks, Dan,” he sighed.

“Why?” Dan managed a laugh. “I almost ruined it for you.”

“I almost ruined it for myself,” Phil smiled. “Listen, just forget about that now, okay? I’m not mad anymore, it’s all good.”

“Yeah?”

Phil nodded. “I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”

“Neither do I,” Dan agreed quietly. “I’m sorry again though.”

Phil shrugged, lifted a hand and ruffled Dan’s hair. “I said it’s okay, mate. Forget it.”

“Okay, but . . . but we’re okay, aren’t we?”

“We’re okay,” Phil looked at Dan, curls damp and flattened around the sharply drawn outline of his face. His shirt was stuck to him, dripping from the pool’s water and he looked so pretty, Phil almost forget how he could ever have been mad. He brushed his hand down into Dan’s and found his little finger, linked it with his own and shook them together because it had become their way of saying _I promise_ , which, equally, had become their way of saying _always._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this point on, there are no more children lol. Dan and Phil grow up in the next chapter, so look forward to that! It’s a change I’m sure you won’t like (yup) but it’s not necessarily a bad one. In fact, this upcoming part of the story is my favourite in comparison to what you’ve already read. Leave me some love, and a comment on what you’re thinking <3


	12. XII

**XII**

Dan Howell grew from a confusingly pretty ten-year-old to a entirely _gorgeous_ sixteen-year-old. There was a lot between the ages, a lot more than expected crowded into six years and Phil couldn’t really describe the transition but maybe that was because he’d been there—on the sidelines or some shit—and watched every day of Dan’s life.

There was a lot that remained and a lot that didn’t.

The tenderness that constructed his appearance, split like perfectly fitting jigsaw pieces all became fuzzy and it lost its shine as Dan grew into his long limbs. The careful corners were scratched away, sculpted into sharp edges and slick outlines. He’d lost a few of the pieces along the way, and that was the best way Phil could describe it.

That childhood glare of light—the one that touched flecks of glitter into his smile—dwindled away behind a blaze of maturity and it wasn’t like Phil woke up one day and it was gone, except—

Except it kind-of was, in a way. Because he never realised it was fading. He never realised these things had a time-limit, never realised Dan had a time limit. He stumbled into his youth head-first, like a too-confident diver. His personality scattered, smashed itself into pieces for a rearrangement and to rid of a few that didn't fit.

Dan’s anxiety remained like his centrepiece. It grew, developed, and for his eleventh birthday, he had medication. He had it for his twelfth too, and his thirteenth but he didn’t take it. By then, he had it in him to form the word _no_ and Phil was there when he flushed the entire bottle of pills down the toilet.

He never said anything about his past, about Sammy or why he was loathed or why he was even _at_ the orphanage and Phil gave up ever trying to figure him out.

Bernie and Elise were never father and mother to him. They weren't to Phil either, not really, but he said it anyway because it made them smile.

To Dan, however, that didn’t matter. Because as he grew, he misplaced the ability to put on a front and he’d forgotten how to spell _I’m okay_ even when he truly was. Although that didn’t happen often. To Dan, Bernie and Elise were just Bernie and Elise; that couple that lost twin boys once, a long time ago. He told Phil one night that he felt like a replacement.

He did that a lot, admitted things in the middle of the night. He rarely slept in Phil’s bed anymore though, and if he did, it was only for the worst of reasons. Like at thirteen, when he was made to go swimming at school and take off his shirt and—

He started straightening his hair when he was thirteen, too. Phil was never sure how he felt about that. He tried to like it but he missed the curls too much; or maybe he just missed the Dan with the curls. He didn’t like the Dan with the straight hair.

The Dan with the straight hair only tasted a laugh in the back of his throat months at a time because he wasn’t fond of his smile and the Dan with the straight hair smoked behind the gates at school because he _insisted_ it helped with his anxiety. The Dan with the straight hair was _I_ not _we_ and the Dan with the straight hair was beautiful, he was, it was just—

The Dan with the curly hair had died to make room, it felt like, and Phil missed him so, so much.

He tried not to think about it and he never said it but growing up just felt like dying. It did. Like every year, it was getting harder to breathe.

But Phil—

Phil was just _fine_. Fine with that, fine with everything.

He was always fine.

Martyn moved away somewhere to college, and Phil heard he didn’t really speak to Lent anymore. They just grew apart, is all. Dan and Phil had grown apart as well, but in the strangest way. They grew _around_ one another when they were supposed to have grown _within_. And it all felt wrong, like it had all been blurred and everything that was supposed to have happened . . . hadn’t. It was always supposed to. Like an empty voice calling out for an echo because there was _supposed_ to be one. Dan was _supposed_ to take his medication and Phil was _supposed_ to just be fine with him not and they were supposed to be best friends.

Phil wasn’t going to be bitter about the whole thing but there was a time when they used to watch the sunset and the sunrise and count the difference between the two and there was a time when they used to read books to help sleep at night, books with naive and predictable storylines. And there was a time when the books were Dan and Phil’s, not just Dan’s. There was a time when everything that was Dan’s, was Phil’s and likewise but that didn’t matter anymore.

There was a time when they said sorry quickly but now they didn’t even need to say sorry at all and somehow, that was worse.

It didn’t matter anymore either.

All that mattered, really, was that they they had grown up. And nostalgia was painted like inconvenient spillages in the places they used to sleep and Phil’s heart whispered _I miss you, I miss you, I miss you_ like it would bleed the words onto a page if he were to ever find a way to get them out. The spaces between their ribs felt wider now and they didn’t link their little fingers anymore and Phil couldn’t remember what Dan’s voice sounded like half the time.

But he was fine.

He got to the age where the twenty minute drive became the twenty minute walk (or some shit like that) and he excelled in Art and Chris was maybe, probably his best friend just because Dan couldn’t possibly be.

Dan was fourteen when he first said the word _fuck_ and it was horrible and dirty and Phil hated it. He said it too, sometimes, they each had a share of colourful vocabulary but it just didn’t sound right in Dan's voice.

Dan was also fourteen when he fell in love for the first time—or so he said—with a girl whose hair ended too far down her shoulders and always kissed him in the corner of his mouth. She called herself Abi and she wasn’t the same either.

Nobody was.

Phil kept himself to himself. He kissed this girl through the darkness of a grey afternoon once and it tasted nice but they never kissed again and he thought maybe that was how it was supposed to be. He never called her his girlfriend or pretended she was something she wasn’t and he was completely okay with it. She was, too.

Phil would have liked something to call his, though. A person or a thing or whatever, it didn’t really matter. At fourteen, he didn't call Dan anything, and Dan didn’t call him anything. And they slept on their own sides of the room and _do you ever get homesick?_ was written like graffiti across the walls. Neither of them read it though—Or maybe they did, and they just didn’t talk about it because they didn’t talk about anything anymore.

Dan continued to listen to music in the garage. When he was fifteen, Bernie carried the record player up to their room for them to listen to as they fell asleep and Dan had never smiled so extravagantly. Phil liked the idea, too, saw it as a replacement for the silence that rang and rang and rang through the dead of the night.

Dan used to spend hours talking about the attic back at the orphanage and how it made him feel safe but at fifteen, Phil knew he’d forgotten it and it had forgotten him. He didn’t talk about wanting to be an actor or going to Hollywood. He didn’t talk about _Winnie The Pooh_. He didn’t talk about Harrison either which, of course, was a good thing but Phil—

Phil just wished he’d talk about anything.

Anything, like how he used to. They’d have hour-long conversations about what the rain sounded like on the windows at three in the morning but at sixteen, Dan was somewhere out in the rain. He never came to Phil when he cried, instead he would lock himself in the bathroom and there’d often be no reason for him to. He’d just cry. And Phil would listen, sitting on the stairs, face in his hands because _God, what had happened?_ and Dan would leave with cloud in his mossy eyes, a tint of red in his face and tears across his lips.

At sixteen, Phil’s hugs weren’t the best ever anymore and that was fine. Dan probably didn’t smell like coconut shampoo anymore and that was also just fine.

But Phil struggled quite a lot to keep up with the fact that he’d known Dan for six years. That forgotten promises had slipped themselves down into the slats on the floor of their bedroom, the only real thing they still shared. Sometimes, Phil missed him. But he was always thinking about him, even when he was telling himself not to.

Sometimes he thought was going to burst, he made him feel that much. He was just so beautiful, even more so now that he’d grown, with smoother skin and sharper bones and even though they were more evident, even though he was thinner, Phil still thought he was gorgeous. His heart stuttered in his chest every time he offered him a glance.

He said he wasn’t scared of anything the last time Phil spoke to him, which was two days ago. It was a bit nostalgic, that.

Today, it was a Saturday and Phil was spraying a can of deodorant across his chest before he headed out for an afternoon with Chris and Cat. He was now accustomed to waking up before Dan, who still slept, one leg out of the sheets. Light from the window tumbled in over his face, coming between the gap in the lace curtains, and he lay still. Even when he was asleep, their distance was still awake and moving and exerting itself. Dan was sixteen and they didn’t talk, didn’t touch or laugh and Phil was working on not thinking about him, too.

He made out of the room without a single word, shutting the door on his back with a faint touch. He could wind down these stairs to the kitchen with his eyes closed by now if he really wanted to—it’d been so long. So long with Dan, so long without him. The two were juxtaposed.

“Morning,” Bernie addressed upon his entrance. “Where’s your brother?”

Neither of them ever really got used to that.

“Asleep, do you need to ask?” Phil sighed, jaded, slipping into a seat and taking some toast. He spread butter and jam across its surface as Bernie complained and protested about Dan’s sleeping habits. It wasn’t right, he always said. Sleeping away his life and his education. He never manages to get up for school on time.

“Oh, give it a rest, Bernie,” Elise snapped, arms spilling with laundry. “He’s sixteen, they all do it. It’s just a phase.”

“Phil doesn’t do it,” Bernie chuntered. “Up every day at seven, on the dot. Adolescence isn’t an excuse, Elise. You and I both know it has nothing to do with that.”

“Well he’s just Dan, isn’t he?” Elise exhaled as she dropped the laundry to the floor and began to load it into the washer. “He does what he wants and says what we wants and, no, maybe it isn’t his age, maybe it’s just _him_.”

“We need to put a stop to it,” Bernie said, taking a mouthful of his cereal. “I’m serious. I’ve had just about enough of his attitude towards us. Including Phil.”

“Phil?” Elise stood back upright. “He doesn’t even talk to Phil.”

Phil felt a twist in his gut as he chewed on the strawberry-tasting toast. He tried to focus on the movements of his jaw and not the conversation at hand (like he always did when Dan’s name was mentioned) but that proved too much of a challenge. He was accustomed to failing in this field.

“But when he does, he’s horrible,” Bernie paused to shake his head. “I’m sick of him, Elise. There’s no need for it, he’s an _embarrassment_.”

“He’s better left alone,” Phil voiced, muted by the mug around his lips. “Honestly, Dad. Don’t bother with him, I don’t anymore. Let him grow up the way he wants to.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Bernie forced. “But I’m not prepared to let him become a complete failure because that’s certainly the path he’s heading down—”

“Why do you talk about me when I’m not the room?” Dan stumbled into the kitchen with a hand in his messy hair and dash of sleep across his embarrassingly handsome face. He took a piece of plain toast (the action was rather begrudging, due to his constant lack of appetite) and dug his teeth into the corner of the crust, standing in the centre of the kitchen, the centre of attention. He was always the centre of attention somewhere; he span in circles in Phil’s mind.

It didn’t really bother Phil that much, his behaviour. It seemed to irritate everyone else but Phil—it just made him sad. He didn’t know why. It probably should’ve pissed him off, even if just remotely, but he looked at Dan, looked at this boy, and he felt nothing. There wasn’t a rush of understandable anger or irritation or even . . . even _attraction_. He just felt empty. Because Dan had become empty and he’d lost so much of himself over the years, skin fallen away and childhood glee dying of an ironic old age.

“If you’d have gotten up on time, you’d have been in the room, wouldn’t you?” Bernie bit a dig back at him.

“What do you mean, on time? It’s a Saturday, Bernie, there’s no such thing as on time,” The chair scraped against the floor as Dan sat down opposite Phil and took another mouthful out of his toast. Phil watched him carefully, eyeing every curl of his lips and swipe of his tongue. He didn’t look up to find his stare once and it was sickening, that. He never looked at Phil anymore.

Phil wondered if he could even remember the colour of his eyes.

“There never is with you, is there?”

“God, what’s your deal with my punctuality?“

“What’s my deal? My deal is that is it’s completely atrocious, like the rest of you!”

“Oh!” Dan’s laugh cracked over the stillness and it was cold as Phil was expecting but that didn’t infliction of it on his skin hurt any less. “Nice hit, old man.”

“Right, I’ve had enough of this—” Bernie stood up and smacked his chair against the wood of the table as he shoved it under. “I want you out all day today, and don’t come back until you really must.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning stay away as long as you can!” Bernie left the kitchen with a slam of the door and Phil watched it snap back on its hinges. It spoke of his burning rage, his failure at raising this boy away from disappointment.

But Phil didn’t blame him. He didn’t blame Bernie and Elise for anything. The ending was the same, regardless of the plot. And Dan was destined to fail under the light of self-antipathy, something that spilled out all of the cracks in his broken state and seemed to drown everyone. It was such an inconvenience to them all, and maybe Phil had given up trying to help him, but he was still keeping his head above the water. He thought, in some twisted mindset, that he was pulling Dan up too. He still had a grip on him, and although it was loosening, it was still there. His fingers were still holding on, even if they wouldn’t for much longer.

The truth was, Dan was an adult now. When he finished school, he was going to leave for college to destroy himself in silence, and Phil couldn’t cling onto him, pull him back. He was already going. He’d already lost too much to find anything in their friendship to hold on to. There wasn’t a thread in sight, and whenever one presented itself, it would snap with just a light brush of Phil’s fingers.

“You really shouldn’t mess with him like that, Dan,” Elise said, stern, from the other side of the room.

“I didn’t do anything wrong, he’s always snapping at me for no reason,”Dan huffed, still pulling little pieces from his toast. “I’m going out today anyway.”

“Just be back before dark.”

“But he said—”

“It doesn’t matter what he said, he’ll have calmed down by then. Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. Out somewhere with Tanner and Abi.”

That was always the answer. Tanner was completely infatuated with Dan’s adopted attitude, and he’d grown apart from Chris, Cat and Phil to spend more time with him since they couldn’t _stand_ being in his vicinity. There were two groups now. There’d been a split down the middle and Phil knew which one he was in, he just didn’t like it. He should’ve. But he and Dan had been separated by the split, by so many splits in so many places, and he had some denial.

“Alright, well just stay safe,” Elise told him. “Where are you going, Phil?”

“To Chris’ place,” he sighed, slapped his knees and pushed himself out of his seat. “I gotta get going actually. I’ll be back about six.”

“Okay, dear. Have fun.”

They shared a smile before Phil exited the kitchen and headed on up the stairs. He was at the third step when he felt a hand reach and tighten around his arm, and turned to Dan.

“You gotta start waking me up,” he almost demanded, looking at Phil for what felt like the first time. Phil’s chest deflated at his attention, stomach bubbled. “Bernie’s constantly on my ass and—”

“Get off me, Dan,” Phil shrugged him off, actively ignoring the torrent under his skin where Dan’s fingers had brushed. His ability to ignore his feelings was spectacular. 

“Oh, come on, Phil,” Dan sighed, trailing after him up to their bedroom. “Just shake me. Throw water at me or something, if you really want to—Come on, you know I’m shit at waking up.”

“Whatever, I’ll wake you. Just leave me alone,” Phil’s response was bleak, desolate, and there was nothing there. There hadn’t been anything there for a long time.

“Alright, alright—What’s your problem?” Dan dropped himself down onto his bed, resting his head on his pillow in a lazy, exaggerated motion. He stalled a hand through his hair.

“Why do you talk to Bernie like that?” Phil managed a look over at him laying there and he felt another flutter in his chest. He was sick of these little reactions under his skin every time he merely glanced at this boy, so much so that he was buzzing with inner-conflict. _Go away, go away._

“Like, what?”

“You know.”

Dan huffed, propping up on his elbows. “He doesn’t like me. I thrive off it. It’s the only way.”

“It’s not the only way at all. Why don’t you just sort it out with him instead of being so rude? He’s trying.”

“Trying? Trying doesn’t benefit anybody and I don’t owe him shit,” Dan walked over and cracked his wardrobe open, flitting through and retrieving a black shirt.

“He raised you, I’d say you owe him everything,” Phil snapped.

“He’s been there a quarter of my life, that means nothing to me,” Dan said, equally as hard but not as loud. He had a voice that said he didn’t care, and that was nothing out of the ordinary. “Look, I don’t owe anybody anything and neither do you. Don’t let them convince you of it, it’s a complete fuck-over.”

“Convince me of _what_? You don’t get to decide what I give anyone, they’ve been there for me and I’m doing my best to give them something back—”

“What’s that, the best grades in the year? ‘Cause that won’t mean anything when you finally move out,” Dan stood, watching, fingers clutching the rim of his black shirt. “Being proud gets old after a while.”

Phil crossed his arms, lips thin. “And you’d know that, would you?”

“God, when did you get so _pissy_?” Dan shuffled across the room to the door. Phil knew he was heading to the bathroom to change, like he’d always done. He’d never gotten comfortable enough to dress in front of him; or, rather show all that pain in front of him and—

“Why do you still do that?” Phil was saying before he’d even given himself the time to taste-test the words on his mind’s tongue.

Dan dropped his hand from the door and turned slowly. “What?”

“Change in the bathroom,” Phil said, careful and like infliction was his intention. It wasn’t, but they were point-scoring. “It’s not like you’ve got anything to hide.”

Dan had slowed, voice dulling as he turned to Phil with a shocking haunt in his eyes. Smudges of a fear, forcing itself through. “Don’t,” It shook, and the vulnerability of the word ached in the air. “Don’t.”

“Don’t, what?”

“Just _don’t_ ,” he spat, gathering back his courage and using it for ammunition. He scurried away behind a heavy slam of the door.

Phil’s heart was hammering against his chest like a nail pushing through a wall and he took a few steady breaths to medicate his unease. Then, he reached for the art-pad under his bed and tossed it into his bag, zipped it up and flung it on his back.

As he left, he pretended he’d never asked why. He pretended he’d never cared and that he didn't now. He pretended they’d never shared a bed and they hadn't met at that damn near cursed orphanage. He pretended he was okay, and Dan was too.

He’d gotten pretty good at pretending.

><

Chris lived in the same place he’d always done. A little house on the corner of a street with pretty flowers blanketing the lawn like a sewn, floral sheet.

His mother greeted Phil when he stepped through the door with a benevolent smile and a tray of freshly baked shortbread, which she proceeded to lay out on a plate. She was often baking, his mother. She’d grown up with a yearn in her bones to run her own bakery and she said these weekend batches of goods made up for the time she spent in an office, the time she spent living a life she said she never would.

“Did you bring the paper?” Cat asked immediately after Phil had mounted the stairs into Chris’ with a mouthful of hot, sugary bread. She was throwing one of Chris’ football ornaments up in the air and catching it, legs crossed on his bed.

“Yeah,” Phil sighed. He dropped his bag on the mattress and took out the art-pad. “Sorry, I only had this one at home. My other pads are in loads of different classes at school, dotted around everywhere. I gotta chase them up actually.”

“Oh, is this your _secret yellow pad_ ,” Chris swooped down and clawed it from Phil’s grasp, flitting through. His face quickly scrunched into a frown. “You can’t just not tell me you’ve ripped all your brilliant designs out. That’s called leading someone on.”

“No way he’s ripped them out,” Cat scoffed, eyes trained on the movement of the small football through the air.

Chris dropped the pad on the bed. “Yup.”

“What?” Phil shrugged, showing patent innocent. “They’re personal.”

“Come on, you know we won’t judge you for them—What do you draw that’s bad enough to hide from us?”

“None of it’s bad, I’d just prefer to keep them to myself. It’s comforting to know only I’ve seen them.”

“Mrs Havock would do anything to see them,” Chris said from his desk, typing something out on his computer. “You could get some serious money out of that.”

Phil rolled his eyes. “I’m not gonna ask the poor woman for money, Chris. They’re mine, okay? I just wanna keep the ones in that pad—or not in that pad—to myself. You see all the others, they’re all strung up on the walls in art class.”

“Yeah, you can’t miss them,” Cat muttered. 

Phil forced a look on her.

“I’m kidding. They’re amazing, babe,” she gave him a smile, commonly affectionate. She’d grown up showing a strong protection over Phil, as though he was her younger brother or something. Chris was probably her older brother if they were seeing it like that, the way she bantered back and forth with him.

“Hey, Phil, what grade did you get in that History paper on Hippocrates?”

“Why?”

“He wants you to write it for him,” Cat assumed.

“No! I just—” Chris interrupted himself, eyeing the way Cat was still throwing his ornaments around. “Seriously, do you mind?”

“Wait, seriously?” she echoed, mocking. “No.”

“My Dad bought me that from London,” Chris walked across, snatched it from her and settled it back into its place on the shelf. London; Phil’s memory always seemed to spark in the same direction at the mention of the dazzling city.

“I know, you’ve only told me seven thousand times,” Cat rolled onto her stomach near Phil and tossed a packet of pens to him. “I got my old ones today, they’re just as good. Besides, this is only a crappy assignment. You got the sheet?”

“Yeah,” Phil laid a crumbled piece of paper from his pocket and scanned it. “Flower sketch. Simple colour pattern. Print details of the design somewhere on the piece.”

“A _flower_?” Cat sounded legitimately bored. 

“It’s what it says. It’s not that bad, I suppose. At least we can secure some decent grades without too much effort.”

“Yeah, but you’d think they’d give us something a bit more challenging. God.”

“They don’t have any faith in us. And, besides, it’s just easier to grade a flower sketch,” Phil informed, educated. “It’s simple really, isn’t it?”

“Almost too simple,” Chris added. “What’s the deal with my ancestors’ hygiene, man? This Hippocrates guy was a _lifesaver_ , by the sounds of it.”

“Quite literally,” Phil let himself lugh at him as he took a black marker from Cat’s packet, inking his name at the top of a plain sheet.

“How was he this morning?”

Phil peered up at the question to meet Cat’s careful eyes.

“Who, _Dan_?” Phil’s lips moved to pronounce the name and it tasted as it always did now. Foreign. Bittersweet.

She nodded.

“Um, yeah, the same. Bernie yelled at him and he was his usual, charming self.”

“He take his pills?” Chris chirped.

Phil looked at him with words between the lines of his forehead, teeth coming down over his lip.

“What?”

“You’re not supposed to know about him _not_ taking them,” Phil reminded softly. He’d spilled everything to them at Dan’s sixteenth birthday, back in June.

“Oh, yeah,” Chris clicked his fingers and droned into a sarcastic tone. “I mean, of course he took them. What a stupid question, Chris.”

“I’ve told you anyway, I have no idea if he takes them anymore. He doesn’t tell me, we don’t talk,” Phil began sketching the outline of a petal. “I mean, we do, a bit. Like, small talk and stuff. Ways to pass the time, I suppose, but never about his pills. Never about personal stuff.”

“He used to tell you,” Cat noted, almost under her breath.

Phil didn’t think the knife in his chest, implanted by Dan’s distance, was ever going to go away. He wasn’t ever going to find a way to pull it out and he wasn’t ever going to find a way to be okay with it resting there. And whenever he tried to move it, it just hurt more. Blood spilled out in a horribly secretive red on the inside of his shirt. Like _nobody else could see it_ —

But it was there.

“He did,” Phil managed a murmured response, after some time.

“I don’t know why I asked honestly, I’m kinda just pretending to care and I don’t have to in front of you guys,” Chris spoke over Phil’s pathetic agreement. 

“You don’t have to in front of _him_ , it’s not like he cares what we think,” Cat said, not gazing up from the flick of her pen against the paper.

“Yeah,” Chris paused. “Did he go out with Tanner and Abi again?”

Cat laughed. Once and firm. “Stupid question.”

“Dammit, I’m good at them today.”

“You always are,” she replied. “Of course he went out with them, you idiot. Abi’s tied to him at the hip and Tanner’s always gotta be where he is.”

“You know, I remember a time when he used to slag Dan off,” Chris shook his head. “Moaning behind his back whenever he had the chance.”

“You mean when Dan was friends with _us_? When he’d happily be seen with us without dying his hair or wearing face paint?”

“He’d actually do that, wouldn’t he?”

The friends Dan had were tightly packed. Secure. They’d constructed a name for themselves on the basis of popularity. Everything they had was artificial, but there was a twist because _they_ couldn’t see it. They were the kind-of lads who didn't just skip class, they skipped class to smoke. The kind-of lads who, at one time, would probably have been the ones kicking Dan’s chair and spitting balls of paper at his head.

The kind-of lads Phil often compared to Harrison, that _son of a bitch._

“Yeah,” Phil just managed to catch Cat saying. “We were the original squad.”

“He needs to start remembering that. And fast.”

“Why? It’s not like we’d ever be friends with him again—He straightens his hair, for God’s sake,” Cat shook her head. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that, it’s just—Why does he have to change himself so much to fit in? I loved his curly hair when he was a baby.”

“You never knew him when he was a baby,” Chris frowned at her.

“Young enough,” she shrugged. “When he was adorable and loving and pretty. He was a lovely looking thing, wasn’t he?”

“Didn’t realise you used to crush on Dan.”

“I didn’t! God, Chris—I was just stating a fact. He was pretty. Well, he still is, a bit. Don’t get me wrong, I really bloody hate him, but he’s kinda gorgeous,” Cat admitted with a surprising honesty using its fingers to hold up her tone.

Phil’s mind ran three-hundred-metres of _God, yes, he is, isn’t it?_ and played a game of avoiding his tongue.

“Whatever, Cat,” Chris chuckled, like it was the most ridiculous statement. He didn’t understand; Phil wondered how _he_ did himself.

“It’s not like I’d ever want to date him or anything,” Cat sighed. “He’d be a right one to date. A pain in the arse. I don’t know how Abi deals with him.”

Phil tried so hard not to pay attention. His fingers clutched tight around the pencil in his grip.

“She’s a bitch,” Chris spat. “Always has been, always will be.”

“You were her friend once.”

“And so were you. Phil was Dan’s friend once, it doesn'’t mean he isn’t an ass.”

Phil didn’t know why he still thought about Dan so much. Why he still cared, truth be told. Because he did. He still cared so much about him and that probably made him a whole lot of things he didn’t want to be, but—

But this was _Dan_ , for God’s sake. This was the same boy who had cried over the marks on his arms because they were ugly, because he was ugly, and the same boy who had believed nobody would ever love him. Phil assumed he still believed these things because he most definitely hadn’t fixed himself. And Phil lay for so many hours at night, words on his tongue with just the barrier of _saying them_ in his way.

_You should love yourself. Why don’t you love yourself? Look at you. God, look at you. I can’t stop looking at you. I can’t stop thinking about you. You don’t care anymore, but I do. Remember all that stuff we said? Remember all those promises we made, and we broke? Remember me and remember you? Remember us? I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. Damn, you’d change your mind in half a second. You’re all I have and you’re all I know—Come over here. Please, come over here. You can lay with me like we used to and listen to music and—I want you so much. Can’t you see?_

_I want you so much and I know it’s wrong. It’s bad, bad, bad. It’s always been bad and it will never not be but maybe we could make it okay, make it good. Please, I’m sick of wanting you—_

“Phil?”

Phil’s head slowed, thoughts died. His mouth was dry and it wasn’t the first time he’d confronted his feelings, but it never failed to have the same terrifying impact on him. “Sorry, yeah?”

“When was Hippocrates born?”

><

When Phil arrived home later that afternoon, Dan wasn’t back. He ate dinner with Bernie and Elise—they spoke about college and what was going to happen when he left next year—and then he went upstairs for a shower.

Phil let the water run warm for a while before he got in. It was appeasing on his head, sliding across his skin and quietly drumming against the floor. He threaded his fingers through his wet, black hair and tried to still what was beneath it. _Dan, Dan, Dan_. It was never going to stop. He was long overdue in coming to the conclusion that it probably never would. As each day dragged itself by, Dan’s state became worse, and the combat of the silent battle waging under his skin grew hellish.

But Dan didn’t care anymore and Phil wasn’t supposed to and it was a mess of what was right and was wrong. Morality. That was all they’d ever known. And, no, their distance didn’t happen overnight and, yes, maybe they should’ve done something to stop it. Maybe Phil should’ve found out all he promised he would, and maybe Dan should’ve just told him. And maybe their lives were a bit of a train wreck, but their trains weren’t the ones that had crashed. Phil wished they had. Phil wished he’d have just—

God, he wished he’d have done something. He wished he could do something to help Dan now because they were supposed to be so much more than just a couple of boys with a past. But they’d let one another down an equal amount. They failed to remind themselves of what their hearts sounded like together, failed to remember the way their fingers linked, failed to find the courage to whisper into the night and failed to—

Failed to succeed. They just _failed._ And it was getting a bit . . . monotonous. If only Phil could forget about him like Dan had him, it wouldn’t honestly be a problem at all. It would just be another one of those things that lay in the fragments of six years ago and sometimes he thought about it, sometimes it came up in conversation with a _do you remember that?_

But, mostly, it would be no more than a _no and I don’t want to._

When he left the bathroom, hair damp and a thin current of water dragging down his spine, he was counting to one hundred and thirty seven. Counting was a way to pass the time, a way to temporarily forget.

_One hundred and thirty eight, one hundred and thirty nine—_

Dan was stood on the wrong side of the room when Phil made his entrance right through the silence of a number, towel in his arms and body warm under his clothes. He held a little sheet of paper between his fingers.

“What are you doing?”

Dan snapped his attention up, quickly stilling his eyes on Phil. His face settled and he shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s mine,” Phil frowned at him. It was the drawing of the flower from earlier. He reached to snatch it from Dan, but he held his arm back.

“I’m just looking,” he insisted, simple. “It’s cool, I like it. You’re good at art, aren’t you?”

Phil’s eyes were slightly narrowed, expression drawn in confusion. _What was happening?_ Dan sat down on the very edge bed and it creaked softly under the small weight of his lanky body. Phil stood at his feet, looking down on him as he scrutinised the drawing.

“I wish I could be good at something,” he commented.

“You’re good at a lot of things,” Phil replied moderately quickly, and it felt like he was eleven again. He really had no idea _what_ Dan Howell was good at.

“It’s not the same being good at a lot of things. I want something that just I’m good at. Rather than being ‘decent’ at everything.”

“You’re good at being a dick,” Phil said.

Dan laughed, amusement coming in a warm breath. “Thanks. But, do you know what I mean? Wanting to be good at something? Come on, you’re clever and all that, right?”

“You don’t want to be good at everything, you just want to be good at something and that’s not the same thing. It means more,” Phil paused. “Yeah, I get you.”

“You do,” Dan stilled his gaze on him, eyes softer than they had been in a long time. It felt strange to captire his stare, to actually _see_ his eyes long enough for them not to blur in a sea of brown. It felt nice, felt okay. His eyes had matured and the brown had become slicker, stronger around his pupils but still soft everywhere else. Not soft enough for the world to notice he was still little Dan from the orphanage, but soft enough for Phil to.

“Why are you back already?” Phil spoke then, carefully through the silence.

“Back before dark,” Dan said, and looked back to the drawing in his hands. “Where do you want this?”

“Um, just—” Phil reached down for it. “Just give it here.”

Dan handed it to him, and it was strange. So simple and so easy. Dan wasn’t either of those things, he never had been. But in these moments, he was. Maybe he was just tired, too tired to keep up the act.

“It’s good,” Dan put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up from the bed. He walked over to his side of the room and lay down. “You should put it up.”

“Up, where?” Phil frowned over at him. This was the easiest of conversations he’d had with him in a long time.

“The wall? I don’t know, man, where do you usually put drawings?” Dan put an arm behind his head and yawned, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

“The trash,” Phil admitted with a laugh, and sat down cross-legged on his own bed. Just over where it was creased from Dan’s placement.

“Seriously?” Dan sounded surprised. “Why?”

“They’re shit? I’m not proud of them? I don’t know, _man_ , why do you usually put drawings in the trash?”

“I don’t. All of mine are fantastic,” Dan smiled faintly. It was the most he could do, Phil knew that. “You know it.”

“I’ve never seen them. Do you even _draw_?”

“Not unless I have to,” Dan sighed and rolled over, tugging open his top drawer and taking out a piece of crumbled paper. He unfolded it and held it up, displaying a strangely scrawled figure.

“What is that?”

“A dog,” Dan smiled at it. “Mine have six legs.”

“Looks like seven to me.”

“Well, you’re far away,” he dismissed, and let his eyes flicker back to Phil. Something had changed, it seemed. “You have been for a long time.”

“You have,” Phil argued weakly. _God._

“No. I’ve been right here.”

“So have I?”

“But you were supposed to do more than be right here,” There was something sleeping deep in Dan’s voice, but Phil wasn’t allowed to find what it was. “Remember?”

“Dan,” Phil’s veins flooded with a rush of guilt and his name tasted bitter, tasted like sadness.

“What?” Dan carefully folded the drawing back up. “You did it to me today. Dig up a demon for a demon.”

“Stop it,” Phil said. “Don't do this.”

“You don’t like that it’s all on you,” Dan leant back against his headboard and folded his arms. “You fucked me over. You—”

“You were the one that never told me anything. You were the one that changed and that started hanging around the wrong people and I didn't do anything.”

“Exactly,” Dan clenched his teeth, obviously disliking the defence. “My point was that you didn’t do anything. You were supposed to, but you didn't. You left me in the dark and it’s your fault I’m ‘good at being a dick.’ It’s your fault I’m this.”

“No, it’s not,” Phil demanded. “It’s all those people you think I forgot. It’s Harrison’s fault and it’s Sammy’s fault and it’s all those things you got called, all those names you’ve tried so hard to clean off you—”

“You’re an ass,” Dan growled, and his hands tightened into fists. He was sat upright on his bed. “You’re a literal _fucking_ ass. Who the hell do you think you are, bringing that up?”

“A demon for a demon.”

“It’s not, you’re just an awful person—”

“ _I’m_ an awful person? What, and you’re not? You’re the guy who verbally abuses the man who raised him and doesn’t clean up after himself and never wakes up on time and fucks around at school and laughs at kids who aren’t as ‘cool’ as he is—and you’re the guy who smokes at sixteen and doesn't take his pills and shoves his shit in the faces of the people who have been there for him—”

“Are you talking about yourself there?” Dan laughed, but the pain was evident from the unexpected attack. “Because, hell, you haven’t done shit for me.”

“Are you serious?” Phil’s voice wavered. “I haven’t done shit for you? I’ve done everything for you—”

“What have you done?” Dan’s voice stumbled an octave louder. “Come on, Phil. Tell me what you’ve done for me. Tell me what you’ve ever done for me but just be something else I have to drag through my life—”

“Fuck you,” Phil spat, and the words tasted vile but he meant them. “You’re so selfish and so horrible and I hate you—I hate you, Dan—”

“That’s the best you got?” Dan fired at him. “Really? You hate me, wow. I can’t say you’re my favourite person either, _Philly_.”

“But I was once, right?” Phil composure was made, was complete. There wasn’t but a twitch in his facade. “Remember all that? The friend thing? The kid thing?”

“You were never my favourite person.”

“You were mine,” Phil said slowly, and the air seemed to prickle in around the words, as though making room for them to breathe. “You probably still are. That’s what I’ve done for you. I’ve made you everything and you’ve made me nothing. All you can do is sit there and lie to me but I know, I _know_ , exactly how you felt about me—”

“How was that, then? How did I feel about you? Because, damn, I’d love to know if it’s not exactly what I just said,” Dan continued his harshness. “You were nothing. You are nothing. You’ll always be nothing.”

“I’m all you got, mate,” Phil’s voice was surprisingly calm and simplistic, and like it didn’t matter at all. Like the bullets Dan was shooting at him were hitting, but with no impact. Falling away to dust.

“You wish you were all I—”

“I am,” Phil interrupted, and didn't need to take so much as a breath. “I’m all you’ve ever had, Dan. When we’re being honest with ourselves, isn’t it obvious? There was a time before, of course, but that doesn’t matter. You and I both know it doesn’t. So you keep playing your games and pretending like you don’t need things, like you don’t need the people who care. Like you don’t need me. But if I left, you’d have nothing. You might do for a little while—you might do in the day and when you’re out of these walls—but when the sun sets behind that curtain, it’s just me and you. You and I. So don’t you _dare_ fucking tell me you don’t need me.”

Dan’s eyes were on Phil, and they didn’t move, didn't stutter, didn’t falter away for even a second. They were there, the both of them, in that moment.

“I don’t need you,” Dan said, and the words came from the back of his throat. “Try it. Leave. See if I do.”

And so Phil got up and he left. He shut the bathroom door and he didn’t try. He could’ve gone further, could’ve left for good and never spoken to Dan _again._ He could’ve let him be on his own, really on his own now, and reminded him of what it felt like.

He could’ve done that if he wanted to.

But he didn’t. Where he sat on the bathroom floor, Dan could still come for him. He could still find him and he could still fix it and he could still hear a soft whisper of his name, even if he thought nobody cared enough to say it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh I loved writing this! It’s weird that I did, but this change between them is such a new and exciting thing for me. Sad, too, obviously. I’m sorry if it seems a little of poor quality, I edited it quite fast <3


	13. XIII

**XIII**

The next time they spoke was a week later, and it was Monday. School.

Phil despised the place, no more than the average teenager but for his own particular reasons. There had most certainly been a time when he’d been fond of school, fond of education, but now it just seemed he was playing a continual character. A smart kid. A success. Another ‘unique’ student to skim over.

Dan came around his locker that morning, hitting the door to attract his sudden attention. Phil flinched and turned away from him, instantly masking his surprise with irritation.

“What the hell do you want?” he muttered, bold intention overshadowed by weak tone.

“Tell Elise I’m going to watch a movie tonight.”

Phil’s minimal hope deflated to nothing. “Right,” he snapped. “Right, okay. And where are you getting the money for this movie?”

“Her purse.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Phil stared at him, mouth shaped open. He shook his head and scoffed in the face of the disgusting action. “Leave me the hell alone, Dan.”

“Don’t tell her,” Dan remained where was standing, and Phil ignored him. “ _Hey_. Hey, Phil. Do you hear me? I said don’t tell her.”

“I said leave me alone.”

“Tell her, and you’ll regret it,” Dan fired a warning, low.

“Will I, now?” Phil managed a pathetic laugh. “What are you going to do to me? Hit me? Punch me? Put me in hospital?”

“Can’t you just keep your mouth shut?” Dan gripped a terribly thin hand around the locker and slammed it shut. Phil stretched down and retrieved his bag off the floor.

“Can I put this on?” he gestured to his bag. “Or are you going to do something, in which I’ll have to defend myself?”

“I will, unless you promise not to tell her,” Dan said through tight teeth.

“Well, I’ve said I'm going to,” Phil sounded deadpanned. Understanding was there in his voice. “So, come on. Give me your best.”

“Phil.”

“I’m waiting.”

“Don’t you dare think I won’t do it.”

“I _know_ you won’t,” Phil looked at him, and emotion flooded his voice for the first time. “What’s it gonna take? Hhm? Do I have to provoke you, or something? Set you over the edge? You’re not gonna do it, Dan.”

“Try me,” Dan’s voice was thunder—was the moments before the storm.

Phil shoved his shoulder and pushed him back from the locker. Dan stumbled over his feet to gain his balance and moved to shove Phil back, hands forcing against his chest.

“Don’t fucking hit me,” he snarled.

“Why?” Phil pushed him again, lighter this time. And again. “What are you gonna do? Hit me, like that kid the other week? Fight me after school?”

Dan didn’t say a word, but the quick movements of his chest were alarming.

Phil moved to shove Dan again, and this time he caught his wrist. “Stop it,” he barked, all hard and certain. “Fucking stop it right now.”

“Hit me, then. Hit me and I will,” Phil yanked his arm from the grip and moved a step closer to him. “Make me stop, aren’t you supposed to be good at that? Aren’t you supposed to deal with people like me?”

“I could fuck you up so bad. You’re pushing it and you don’t think I have it in me.”

“Because you _don’t_. Because I’m not them, am I?” Phil rested a hand on Dan's shoulder and pushed on him again. “You’re not gonna hit me, are you? You’re not. You never would, you never could.”

“You’re my brother, that’s all,” Dan spat at him. “And I don’t want any more trouble for Bernie and Elise and—”

“Bullshit,” Phil called under his breath. “I could hit you right now and you wouldn’t hit me back, would you?”

“Of course I’d hit you back, are you out of your mind? I’d _kill_ you—”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Phil dared a laugh at him. _You were never my favourite person_. “You wouldn’t be able to. You don’t have it in you, there’s too much there for me.”

“Shut up, Phil,” Dan looked like he was going to scream as he brought a shaking a hand to his hair. “My god, shut up. What is _wrong_ with you? Don’t—Don’t do this here, don’t—”

“Don’t, what? Call you out on your shit? Tell Elise? Embarrass you?”

“Shut your mouth,” Dan barely forced the words out, his jaw was so tightly locked. Fixed in place.

“Does it embarrass you? To know I could do that? I could hit you, and you wouldn’t ever be able to lift your fist and hit me back because it’s _me_ and—”

“What’s going on here, then?” Tanner appeared behind Phil, fisting his shirt and dragging him back the slightest amount he could manage. He patted him down with a patronising smirk and ruffled his hair, like he was the eleven-year-old kid he had been when they met.

“Nothing,” Dan snapped, fixing the collar on his shirt. “He’s just being a little shit and threatening to tell tales to Elise.”

“Tales of what?”

“I took money from her purse.”

“Oh, damn,” Tanner chuckled, and bumped his fist into Dan’s arm. “For the movies? And you told this snitch?”

“He better not fucking tell,” Dan pierced a glare through Phil, still right opposite him.

Phil let ghosts of a smile play on his lips. For a moment, he wondered if Dan would do anything if Tanner were to hit him. He wondered what it would take.

“You hear that, Phil?” Tanner prodded him. “No telling. Dan’ll let me know if you do.”

“I will,” Dan was quick to agree.

_You won’t._

“And then you’ll be having me to answer to, and that ain’t good. Got it?”

“Got it,” Phil nodded, and slung his bag onto his back. “I’ll see you later, Dan. Bye, Tanner.”

><

Phil didn’t tell. He didn’t know _why_ , but he didn’t. He couldn’t. As his mother sat there and scratched her flummoxed head at the cash missing from her purse, he kept his words at the other end of the table, rolling his fork through his spaghetti and focusing on a revision textbook.

“Are you sure you didn’t spend it?”

“Yes, Bernie. I’m sure. There was a ten pound note in here this morning. Somebody must have taken it, somebody must have—”

“Dan,” Bernie said his name, and Phil’s heart sank under his mock-nonchalance. He wondered if it presented itself in his flawless facade. “It must have been him. Bloody _Dan_!”

“Let’s not go pointing fingers,” Elise closed her purse with a click and placed it on the counter. She seemed unwilling to believe it.

“No, _let’s._ It was him. Who else would it have been? He left the house before any of us were even up this morning,” Bernie rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m getting really sick of that boy. And this—this now, is the final straw. He’s on his _last_ damn warning.”

“Until, what?” Phil chirped up quietly, eyes over the textbook.

“Until he’s _out_.”

“Of the house?”

“Bernie, you can’t do that,” Elise sighed, shaking her head at him.

“I can’t deal with him anymore, Elise. I can’t. I refuse to. This is it, and I’ll make sure he’s—”

The front door clicked from out in the hall, clasping off its hinges and then shutting back against them. Silence for a moment. For two and for three. Phil closed his eyes and rested his face against his hand as Dan wandered into the kitchen, hood over his head and rain on his jacket. He pulled it from his hair and stood in the doorway, gloom of light around his frame.

“This one’s for you,” Bernie said, voice hard. He had a plate in his hand. “But I’m sure you’re not hungry. Bought food when you were out, didn’t you?”

Dan shifted suddenly, and shook his head. “No, I didn’t have any money. You wouldn’t give me any.”

“You took some,” Bernie snatched the purse and held it up in the air. “You took money from your mother’s purse, and don’t even _think_ about saying you didn’t.”

Dan’s eyes were on Phil. His body shook a little, whether from the cold or the obvious _how could you?_ written on his face.

Phil wanted to scream that _no_ , he didn’t say a word, but he pulled his lip into his mouth and focused on a blurry line in the textbook before his eyes. He read it over five times.

“Did you, Dan?” Elise’s hurt tone fluttered like a current into Phil’s ears. “Did you steal it? Please, just tell me the truth. The punishment will be less harsh if you just tell me the—”

“I’m sorry,” Dan exhaled on an . . . apology. The words were strange. “I’m sorry, I just—I needed the money and I knew it wouldn’t be too much of a big deal for you—You know, what with the art selling good and—”

“There’s no excuse for this,” Bernie growled at him. “This is atrocious! How could you? After everything we’ve done for you? You repay us with this?”

“I said I was sorry.”

“It’s not bloody good enough. There are no more warnings now for you. This is it. One more thing, Dan—I swear to _God_ , one more thing—and you’re out.”

“You can’t kick me out!” Dan’s voice angled with a yell. Of shock, rather than fear.

“You can try and see if I will,” Bernie slammed a hand down on the counter. “Get out of my sight, now. I don’t even want to look at you.”

Dan stood, unsettled for a moment, stilled in place. But then he seemed to gather his wits and shut his mouth, anger dashed over his face as he moved to storm out of the back door.

“You didn’t need to say that to him,” Elise snapped at Bernie.

“He stole from you, I had every right,” Bernie gathered his plate of food and moved to sit down.

“He’s our _son_. You don’t give up on your son, and I’m not going to give up on him. We’re not kicking him out, Bernie—”

“Then how do you expect to resolve this? Better ideas are welcome.”

“I’ll go and check on him,” Phil stood up, chair scratching on the tile. His parents looked at him in a habitual synchronisation, and he reached to grab his jacket off the back of the chair.

“Please, don’t argue with him,” Elise begged. “It’s not worth it, dear. He’ll only get more worked up, and you two will just get farther apart—”

“It’ll be fine, Mom,” Phil promised her with a soft smile, then cracked open the back door. He slipped out into the garden, where the air was cold and unforgiving on his skin, and the sky was a lunar grey—bedecked with torrents—on the horizon. Rain pooled down onto the ground and ran in a quiet rush as background noise.

Dan was stood a little to the right in his jacket, water sliding over his hair and down from his jaw. He had a cigarette between his lips, two fingers holding it there, and he blew a ring of smoke out with fluttering eyelids.

When he noticed Phil was standing there, he gave a throaty scoff that was accompanied with a shake of the head. “Get the fuck out of my sight,” His voice sounded peculiarly calm, oddly smooth.

“I didn’t tell,” Phil said, over the drum of rain. A chill was settling itself under his jacket, product of the glum weather.

“What?”

“I didn’t tell them. I never said a word about the money. Bernie guessed it was you, and figured it out.”

“And you expect me to believe that?”

“No. But it’s the truth and I wanted you to be aware. You don’t have to believe me. You can hate me even more than you already do, if you want. Just know I didn’t tell.”

Dan turned to look at him, taking a drag of his cigarette and letting the smoke consume his lungs. It poured out of his lips, messy, just like the rest of him. “I don’t hate you,” he said, softly.

He looked so beautiful under the low sky. Droplets of water ran down over his face and around the curve of his mouth, and he gathered them with a swipe of his tongue in a disconnection from his cigarette. His damp hair was falling down over his brow and the colour was out in his eyes, dim flame out between his fingers.

“You do,” Phil fought his gentle defence. “Of course you do.”

“No, I don’t,” he sounded firm, serious. He pushed his hair, heavy from the rain, up out of his eyes. “I really don’t. Please, don’t think I do. I’m—God, I just don’t. Okay?”

“What do you expect me to think?” Phil stared at him. “You treat me like you hate me. Like I’m the worst person in the world. I mean, lately—Lately, we’ve been talking more. Even if we’re fighting, it’s been better than silence.”

“Yeah,” Dan stubbed the heel of his shoe down over a patch of grass, and breathed out smoke. “When did it happen? Like, why are we better? Why are we talking?”

“I don’t know,” Phil admitted quietly. “But it’s good to talk again.”

“Do you hate me?” Dan’s question was quiet, muted, nervous and vulnerable and like he was Dan. Like he was . . . he was that boy Phil knew, that boy from the past. There were traces of him smudged into his voice and his frightened eyes.

“No,” Phil promised carefully. “I could never hate you.”

The showers fell clumsily into the silence that sat for a while after the words had disintegrated. It was all they had, all that was between them. Dan dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out and dug his hands back into his pockets. He looked to the sky, eyes closed, and murmured:

“I was never going to hit you today. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t ever do it. You were right. I wouldn’t.”

“I shouldn’t have pushed you like that,” Phil tried conceal the depth as to which the confession had touched him.

“No, but—” Dan looked at him, and— _Jesus, he was stunning_. “But I wanted you to know. I don’t want you to think that you’re the same as everybody else. You’r not like them, you’re not—You’re just—I don’t know, okay, just please don’t think I could ever . . . raise my hand to you.”

“Why?” Phil dared to let the word get up and scramble out of his throat.

“I don’t know,” Dan shook his head, and shivered in the winter air. “I just couldn’t ever do it. I say stuff, and I’m a dick, and sometimes I mean them because I’m a dick, but—But hitting somebody is real, you know? It hurts. And I wouldn’t do that.”

“Alright,” Phil breathed. His lips were tugging just slightly at the corners but Dan looked notably uncomfortable, so he chewed on the inside of his cheek to oppress it and suggested they return inside. “It’s cold, and we’ll be ill. I won’t tell them you smoked.”

“They probably know anyway,” Dan messed with the curls coming out in his hair. “But, thanks. I guess.”

_It’s okay. We’re okay._

><

On Thursday, Phil went back to Cat’s place to study for a test that next week. Chris was babysitting his little cousin and Dan was—Dan was out being Dan.

And that was alright. It was alright for him to be the person he wanted, felt he needed to be.

“I think we should make post-it notes,” Cat said. “And stick them around everywhere. Put them up and stuff, so we remember all the things we need to.”

“That’ll take too long,” Phil disagree and shook his head. “Let’s just read, and write and re-write. Old fashioned methods are always the best.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

“I always am.”

They shared a pointless grin, as Cat flitted through her notebook and started scribbling. “How’re things at home?”

“They’re okay,” Phil paused to wonder if he should mention him. “Dan and I are—We’re good. We’re talking a little. It’s nice.”

“What do you mean?” Cat looked at him with wide eyes. “Are you, like, _friends_ again?”

“No, no. I don’t think so, I don’t think it’s that far. Just—It’s hard to explain. We’re good, though. I’m good.”

“Don’t expect to be bringing him along to my birthday tomorrow,” she said, under her breath. Her eyes were narrowed.

Phil smiled through the strange air. “I won’t. And I doubt he’d want to come, no offence. But you know Dan. Who’s coming from school?”

“Just a handful of people I think I can trust. Maybe. I did let Chris help me out with the list, so I hope it’s safe. There are some girls coming from America, too.”

“Oh, wow, that’ll be great. Are you parents gonna be home?”

“No. It’s my sweet sixteen, I want it to be special. Who knows what might happen?” Cat wiggled her eyebrows and poked her elbow into Phil’s side.

“Oh, God. Know I’ll be watching out for you,” Phil bopped her nose back. “I don’t want you making any mistakes on your big day.”

“As if! Do you know who you’re talking to?”

“Indeed.”

“Phil, Phil,” Cat put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “It’s all gonna be good, babe. It’s my birthday, we’ve gotta be chill!”

Phil played with his pen. “Chill. I can be chill.”

“You can. Just no funny business. We can have fun for _once_ in our lives. It’s our chance to drop all this school shit and just live. Just be the teenagers we are.”

“Yeah, maybe it’s time.”

“It is. Definitely. Let’s just celebrate, yeah? And finally have something good, for all of us. We’re gonna make it through school, and we’re gonna make it through the rest of our lives,” Cat wrapped her arms around Phil’s shoulders and tighter into an embrace. “It’s gonna be so good. Do you hear? So good.”

“I know,” Phil smiled at her. “Just—There’s a lot that could happen with teenagers in those environments, you know? I’m not a fan of parties of any kind.”

“This one will be different. Trust me, babe. I promise you, the night’ll go smoothly. _Nothing_ will go wrong.”

><

Friday’s school day buzzed and beeped around Cat’s name. And Phil loved that, he really did. He thought she deserved a segment of the attention, a piece of the limelight. He didn’t mind standing in the shadows of the light that she was casting, right beside Chris. It felt good to see her shine, to coruscate onto the dullness of _same old, same old_ that rolled around inside their school. Everybody knew Tanner’s name. Everybody knew Dan’s name.

But nobody knew Cat’s, and Phil thought maybe this was the time to learn it.

The evening quickly rolled in, as Phil stood in front of the bathroom mirror and fixed his hair, combing a brush through the slick, black strands. He wore a simple shirt that lacked any genuine creativity, and wore the new trainers his parents had bought him for his birthday so many months before. It was the first time he’d tried them on, but they fit remarkably as he slid his feet into the soles.

“I can drive you,” Bernie offered from beside him. “Your mother and I are going out for some dinner this evening. We thought it’d be nice, just the two of us. Not that it isn’t nice with you boys—Well, with you.”

Phil just smiled, leant up against the wall in the hallway as his father shrugged on a coat and his mother moved around of notable volume upstairs.

“This is Cat’s birthday, yeah?” Bernie pinched his lip.

“Yeah,” Phil nodded. “You know Cat.”

“I do. She’d been a great friend to you over the years, hasn’t she?” he smiled. “Remember to wish her a happy birthday from us.”

“I will,” Phil promised.

“What did you buy in the end?” Bernie gestured to the present in Phil’s hand, wrapped up and sealed with a bow.

“Two books she’d wanted to read for ages, and a necklace.”

“That’s thoughtful of you, son,” Bernie put a hand on Phil’s shoulder and patted him. “Your first proper party, eh? Don’t get drinking anything.”

“I won’t,” Phil shook his head, and his throat burned in a laugh at the hilarity. “I’m sure you can trust me on that, Dad.”

Bernie laughed softly with him also, as Elise came down the stairs in an elegant, floral dress and her grey hair up in a bun.

“That boy is going to be the death of me,” she complained, sliding her shoes onto her feet.

“What has he done now, love?” Bernie held her arm to keep her steady as she arranged herself in her flats.

“He won’t answer my calls. I’ve been ringing him from that poxy line upstairs and he won't answer. He left earlier than usual this morning and hasn’t been back since.”

“Phil, will you try your brother on your mobile?” Bernie turned to ask.

Phil complied and took his phone from his back pocket. He slid through his contacts and clicked on Dan’s name, then held it up to his ear. It rang out to nothing, as Elise dotted herself up once more in the mirror.

“Nothing,” Phil told them, feeling a spark of paranoia also. _No, he was fine. He’d be with Tanner or Abi._

“Good Lord, he’s going to be in so much trouble when he shows up,” Elise puffed distressed exhales through the words. “I look such a mess, and I just want this to be lovely for us. I want to have one great night. Phil, you should be able to go out and have the best time at Cat’s party and we should be able to have the best time at our dinner but, no, Daniel is ruining it yet again for us.”

“He’ll show up, Mom. I’ll keep trying him, and let you know if I get anything. Please, don’t worry,” Phil tried to settle her nerves. She was a lovely woman, she really was. She deserved the world. “And you look beautiful. And you are going to have the best time. Don’t let him ruin this for you.”

“Thank you, dear,” she came over and pressed a sweet kiss to Phil’s forehead. “We never have any trouble from you. You’re such a golden boy, really. We’re so proud of you and tonight will be just great. You’ll have the time of your life.”

They drove down to Cat’s place and built easy conversation, in which Dan was at the centre. He always was.

As the car slowed outside the correct house, pulsing softly with glossy pop tunes, Phil promised to continue trying in calling his brother.

“Just stay safe,” Elise said, window rolled down. “And enjoy yourself. Wish Cat a happy birthday from me, too. She’s such a lovely girl.”

“Will do, Mom,” Phil gave a half-wave to them as he stood back on the front lawn and watched them go. Cat’s house wasn’t _large_ as such, and the music seemed to be accompanied with some other sort-of noise. Noise generated from the sea of people that ached inside the walls, that spilled out of the front door and every other opening.

Phil trekked through the crowd, glad that he’d been here so many times before and could navigate his whereabouts, and settled in on the kitchen. It seemed the stillest of places, somehow. Not idle, but stable. There were faces, and there were people. Everywhere he looked, everywhere he glanced, there was _someone_. And Phil couldn’t associate names with any of them. He’d seen a lot of them around before, but he didn’t _know_ any of them.

“Phil!”

Phil felt arms quick and firm around his shoulders and swiftly spun to Cat, who was dressed in pretty clothes and had a tiara placed on her head.

“Hello, babe,” she grinned at him. “You made it through into here, that’s incredibly impressive.”

“Yeah. It’s kinda crowded, isn’t it?” Phil chuckled, clouded with an unintentional anxiety, scratching the side of his neck at the irritation caused by the collar of his shirt.

“I had no idea word would get around so fast. Half of these idiots don’t even know my name, babe, they just came for the party,” Cat rolled her eyes and reached down for a cup. “Want a drink?”

“Um, yeah, please.”

"What do you want?” she let her hand trail along the line of plastic bottles. “We got Cola, Sprite, shandy—”

“ _Shandy_?”

“Light alcohol,” she shrugged at his inquiry. “It’s not that big of a deal, is it?”

“Suppose not. I’ll just have a Cola,” he answered, and watched with his teeth chewing on his bottom lip as she poured the drink. She handed it to him and he thanked her.

“No problem. So, this my present?” Cat’s constant smile evolved into a grin as she flicked the bow on top of the gift in Phil’s hand.

“Oh, yeah,” he beamed around the flame of realisation like he was the illumination, and handed it to her. "How could I forget?"

“Thank you, babe. I’ll go and put this up in my parents’ room. It’s secluded off, for obvious reasons. Nobody can _touch_ these presents.”

“Alright,” Phil’s laugh was the product of multiple, previous forced ones, and Cat disappeared just as Chris came into sight. He bumped his fist idiotically with Phil’s (quite an odd action for them, but everything about this when odd), dressed in a plaid shirt.

“Nice shirt.”

“It’s terrible, I know. God, it’s so itchy,” Chris scratched instinctively at the fabric stuck to his arms. “My mom bought it me last week, and I _stupidly_ agreed to wearing it. I can’t, you know, break a promise.”

“Definitely not,” Phil sipped from his cup. “So, how’s the party holding up?”

“Good, good. I think,” Chris let his eyebrows draw together. “There was a bit of confrontation over some terrible game earlier. I sorted it though. Like I do with immature kids.”

“You are the master,” Phil paused. “I can’t believe there are this many people here already.”

“Dude, _tell me_ about it. It’s mad. Cat must be _well_ impressed though—Where’d she get off to now? Have you seen her yet?”

“She just went upstairs to put my present away. She seemed in high-spirits.”

“As expected,” Chris started pouring himself a drink. “I just hope nothing gets broken, you know? Her parents have always kept the house nice, and well . . . ”

Chris’ voice blanched out in Phil’s ears as his grip loosened on regard, eyes skimming over to focus on the dark-haired boy in the doorway of the kitchen with his pink lips rimmed around a glass bottle top. There was a girl on his arm, and a boy opposite.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Phil cursed, under a strong breath.

Chris turned and followed the same sequence his eyes had taken to reach Dan, Abi and Tanner.

“Who in their right mind invited _them_? Jesus, they have no place here. They’ve been nothing but twats to the lot of us—And have they got beer?”

“I’ll handle it,” Phil put his cup down on the counter and Chris squeezed his fingers around his arm.

“Dude, no. Are you crazy? I don’t like it either but just leave them. You might get a broken jaw on Cat’s sixteenth and—”

“I’ll be fine, they won’t do anything,” Phil assured, slick with confidence, and started off towards them.

_I couldn’t. I wouldn’t ever do it. You were right. I wouldn’t._

“Phil, would you get back here?”

Phil ignored the girl mushed into Dan’s side and and reached over her head to shove his shoulder. “ _Hey_.”

Dan turned, sharp, and the anger settled somewhat on his face behind recognition. “Oh, alright?” His voice stuttered through incoherency and the slow drag of alcohol. He’d been drinking, no doubt. “I was waiting for you to show up.”

“Mom’s been worried sick about you. Are you drunk?”

“I’m not _drunk_ ,” Dan choked a laugh, but the vagueness of it completely deceived his statement. Abi had her painted nails digging lightly into the blades of his shoulders and Phil just wanted to fucking tear her off him.

“Man, just leave him,” Tanner spoke, with as much sobriety as his friend. “Do you want a beer?”

“You can’t just bring beer into somebody else’s party, somebody else’s home,” Phil snapped at him. The atmosphere shifted. “What is wrong in your head to make you think that’s okay?”

“Hey, you better watch your tone with him,” Abi warned, spitting the words out.

“Too damn right you better,” Tanner tightened his hand around his bottle. “Or this will be right through your skull, you hear?”

“You don’t scare me,” Phil said to him. “I was your friend once. I meant something, even if just for a little. You don’t have the same effect on me as you do on other people, which is rather unfortunate for you.”

There was a chorus of laughs that echoed around the thud of music, as though mocking the sound of the tune, and a guy punched Tanner’s shoulder.

“Don’t talk to me like that, _bitch_ ,” Tanner moved up into Phil’s face, spitting a breath of alcohol around his nose. “Being friends with you was the worst time of my life. You’re a fuck of a guy and a fuck of a player. The best thing we did was drop you.”

“The best thing we did was drop you,” Phil didn’t know Chris was standing there until his voice came and hit back at the cruelty.

“The fuck even are you guys?” Tanner laughed at them. “You’re nothing, you’ll never be anything. What does that feel like?”

“Maybe you should let me know,” Phil snarled at him.

“Get out of my fucking _face_ , Phil, or I swear to God, I’m going to have you on the floor—”

“Just move, Phil,” Dan stumbled to move closer to Phil, hands pushing him back. “Get away from here, we don’t want you, come on—”

Phil didn’t quite know what the boy—alcohol sloshing in his voice—was trying to do until he had drove him out of the kitchen and into the dining-room, away from the crowd.

Chris let him go.

There was nobody the expansive room, and the light was off. Shadows from the glass door, slid into place, crept in on them and poured like a daunting fate over their faces.

“You’re out of your mind, taking him on,” Dan had Phil’s shirt bunched in his hand. “What is the matter with you? Why do you . . . Why do you get involved with things that aren’t yours to?”

“Get off me, Dan, you’re drunk,” Phil pulled the boy away from him. “Why did you push me in here? I’m trying to enjoy my friend’s birthday, it wasn’t supposed to be crashed by you and your shit-ass friends.”

“They’re not shit-ass—How can you have a shit-ass? It’s just an ass. All asses are shitty,” Dan giggled, put his hands on his face. “Shit-ass. You’re stupid, Philly.”

Phil’s heart pulled in his chest and he stole such a strong breath of air that his stomach sucked right in to his ribs. He wanted to fucking crack his skull open to pull out all the memories that whirred to attention when the name tumbled out of Dan’s mouth.

“Stop it, Dan,” Phil struggled to remain situated in the pragmatic area of his mind. “You need to just go home.”

“Home?” Dan rubbed his hands over his face, then up through his hair. “Where’s that, then? _Home_ , damn. Home.”

Phil sighed. “Dan—”

“Do you want a beer?” Dan slurred, stumbling a few feet over to the door. “Let’s go get some beer.”

“I don’t want any beer,” Phil grabbed Dan’s shoulder and stopped him from walking.

“Get off—” Dan’s sudden instinct was rough as he shrugged away the hands, and Phil pulled them back. “—of me. Don’t touch me. I’m not yours to _touch_ , asshole.”

That hurt. A bit. Phil didn’t even make an effort to conceal the flash of pain that ruptured across his face like a burst of lightning.

“Do you want me to take you home?” Phil ignored the strain on his voice. “Come on, Dan, you can’t have anymore to drink and being around is only tempting you—”

“Fuck off,” Dan shoved Phil’s chest and he stumbled back into the wall. _I wouldn’t ever do it._. “Fuck off out my face and my fucking _head_ —”

_His head?_

“Dan,” Phil swallowed back his bitter intrigue and his desperation and stood back upright from the wall. He tried to reach for the boy’s wrist but he flinched away like something was about to burn right through his flesh to his bones.

“Fuck off, Phil!” he yelled. _Screamed_ , precisely voice crumbling under the destructive fists of _pain, pain, so much pain_. “I fucking hate you, you keep fucking coming back to fuck me up—”

“I haven’t done anything!” Phil squeaked. “I’m trying to help you, for God’s sake! What the hell is—”

“You’re fucking messing me up, is what you’re doing!” Dan’s chaotic eyes correlated with the ache behind his words. It wasn’t something Phil had done at that moment, that became strikingly obvious. Dan’s intoxication was digging up the mess they thought they’d buried, like the syllables were fingers clawing at the dirt over the coffins of _we just don’t talk anymore_. As if not talking anymore could ever explain half of what _please just kiss me feels like._

“I’m not trying to—” Phil just wanted to cry as Dan defended himself against him. “I’m sorry—God, Dan, I’m sorry—”

“What the hell’s going on in here?” Chris came through the door with a somewhat flustered Cat, as Dan forced a divide between them again.

“He’s—” Phil sounded so unlike himself, so unlike this mask he’d constructed to place over his face. “We’re trying to work through some stuff—”

“ _Stuff_?” Cat looked between them, then shook her head. “Dan, you need to leave.”

“I’m not fucking leaving,” Dan spat at her, and jammed his finger into Phil’s chest. “Gotta talk to my _brother._ Anyone want a beer?”

“You need to leave with your friends and your alcohol,” Chris demanded, stern and like there had never been anything there for this boy. It was an impossible thought that this was the same kid with the curly hair and the nervous smile, with the frightened eyes and all the baggage. “This isn’t fair, Dan. It’s Cat’s birthday, just leave now and you and Phil can talk about whatever some other time.”

“No, I want to do it here,” Dan slurred around the weight of the final word. “Here, yeah, Phil?”

Cat seemed agitated when she looked at Phil and he wanted to apologise, wanted to scream that he was sorry for everything. For her birthday, for their friendship, for Dan’s behaviour and broken fucking chest. “Phil,” she shook her head. “Please, just take him home.”

“Yeah—Come on, Dan,” Phil grabbed the boy’s arms tight enough to prevent him from breaking free when he thrashed and slurred out insults. He didn’t mean them. This was Dan, he didn’t mean anything.

“Do you want me to help you get him home, mate?” Chris pushed on Dan’s shoulders, forcing him out of the room with Phil’s grip still around him. “I could call you a taxi, you can’t walk him home like this.”

“It’s fine, I’ll do it,” Phil dismissed, heart tired and sick. He just wanted to cry. “I’m so sorry for causing all this, he’s just—He’s a mess. He’s such a fucking mess and I don’t know what to do with him—”

“He’s not your problem to solve,” Cat tried to calm him. “It’s up to your parents, okay? They’ll figure something out, you just have to get him home.”

Phil managed a nod and a brief goodbye as he manoeuvred Dan through the crowds of people with this hands on his shoulders. Out of the slight of his eye, Phil spotted Tanner and Abi with their casket of beer under arm, and he led Dan out of the house in the opposite direction. He continued to mumble nonsense about alcohol and how much he wanted to stay as they crossed over the lawn and started on the pavement.

“You’re an embarrassment,” Phil blurted, behind clenched teeth. He shoved Dan forward and watched him stumble on a drunken laugh. “A fucking embarrassment. You’ve got something seriously wrong with you, Dan, and I don’t—I don’t want this kind-of shit around me.”

“What kind-of shit?” Dan’s voice was just as disorientated as his eyes and his movements. “Me kind-of shit? I kind-of shit? Or you kind-of shit? You have a lot of shit.”

“I have nothing compared to you,” Phil kept a firm hand on the boy’s back as they walked down the road. “You’re a mess, look at you.”

“Yeah,” Dan’s laugh was soaked in some sort-of strange, so far unidentified emotion.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you to make you think it’s okay to just come into somebody’s house and—”

“You don’t look at me like you used to,” Dan’s voice was defeated under a strangle of unexpected sadness and it sounded like he was being tortured, looked like it too as he stopped walking to hug his thin arms around his tiny waist.

Phil didn’t know . . . what to do. He didn’t know what to do. A blanket of emotion that could only be pegged as nostalgic was laid out over his fury. Neither of them had felt anything like it in so long as they stood a few feet apart, Phil staring at Dan’s bony back like his head was trying to scramble to find any form of comfort that didn't involve physical contact.

It hurt so much, everything. It all just fucking hurt so much and they didn’t have it in them to put down legibly what it felt like to stand there on that cold road. The statement could only be drawn to the alcohol in Dan’s veins because he’d never let such a thing merely skim across his lips in a sober mind.

“I’m sorry,” Phil choked, but he wasn’t crying. He felt a kind-of ache so deep in his chest that crying would have to dig to reach it.

Dan shook his head and started walking again. He kicked at a stone and watched it angrily bounce into the road. “Do you believe in God?”

Phil breathed out an exhale of emotion. This was too much for him, all of it.

“I don’t know,” It felt wrong to say, having grown up around Bernie’s stories about God and Jesus, and Elise’s paintings that captured moments of the Bible. “Do you?”

“No,” There was no hesitation in Dan’s voice.

“Why?”

“Because he’s not here, is why,” Dan kicked another stone and then another, before he reached down and threw a stone, hard, at somebody’s wall.

“Dan, stop it,” Phil snapped.

“He’s not fucking here! Do you see me?” Dan waved a hand before himself as he stared with anarchic eyes at Phil. It was so painful to look at him but so painless to feel everything he did. “I’m a fucking mess and he’s not—”

Dan peered up at the sky, arms stretching over his head and yelled, “Fuck you!”

And Phil didn’t even say anything.

“He’s let me hurt,” Dan stuttered out. “So I'm letting him. I don’t fucking believe in you, you piece of _shit_ —”

“Okay,” Phil sighed, gently taking Dan’s shoulders and trying to turn him back in the right direction. “Come on now, let’s just get home.”

“You hate me,” Dan stumbled over his feet and fisted a hand in his hair.

“What? No, I don’t.”

“Do. You think I’m an embarrassment.”

Phil was already regretting saying such a thing. “I don’t hate you, Dan. You’re . . . You’re my brother.”

Dan found some exaggerated amusement in the words as they turned a corner. “Brother, eh? Fucking brother,” he turned to a mumble. “So wrong.”

“You need to sober up,” Phil chose to ignore him. “Dad will kill you if he sees this. You’ll be out the house, remember?”

“No, I won’t. He’s bullshitting, he’d never kick me out,” Dan slurred.

“He sounded pretty serious about it to me.”

“Of course he did. He wanted everyone to believe he’d do it. He knows I smoke and steal shit and I’m still—Still living there. If he wanted to get rid of me, he’d have done it already,” There was such an incoherency in his tone that it was hard to make out what he was even saying.

“Yeah, probably.”

“Definitely,” Dan corrected. “I’m always right. Always right about always being right.”

“You’re never right.”

Dan’s lips curled in a smile that was tangled with alcohol and religion and pointed to the side of his head. “Definitely not up here.”

“Stop mocking your misfortune.”

“It’s not _misfortune_ , Phil,” Dan continued to move down the street with a lack of coordination and an emptiness to his voice that spoke louder than the words themselves.

“What is it, then? Dan? What is it?”

“It’s death, Phil. Death.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dan’s character has had so much development here, it’s unreal. And development in the sense of a shift in his character. What’s interesting is that, actually, there’s a lot of philosophy behind him. The way he behaves, who he’s become. There are a lot of things, particularly in this chapter as oppose to all the others already posted, that come of great importance to his character. The alcohol, the sudden shifts back to the past, the religion.
> 
> This story is growing very messy but it’s supposed to be <3


	14. XIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter features heavy content of a mature nature. It delves into the incredibly sensitive area of domestic abuse. Please be cautious when reading.**

**XIV**

Phil didn’t say anything else on the way home, nothing but the occasional ‘shut up’ and ‘stop it, Dan’ like those insults were insults at all. Phil retrieved the spare key from under the mat when they rounded up at the house and unlocked the door, rolling his eyes when Dan shuffled past him to stumble through. He perched himself on the end of the final step. He put his head in his hands—sleeves over his palms and hair all messy—and gazed down to the floor.

Phil shut the door with a soft click of the lock. He left the keys there on the mantel and peeled his jacket off his back. “Just go up to bed,” he muttered. “I’ll bring you a coffee up so you’re somewhat sober.”

Dan didn’t move. Didn’t speak, didn’t breathe, didn’t flinch. 

“Hey,” Phil uttered. “Are you even listening to me?”

Dan rubbed a hand over his face and lifted his head. There were rings of red around his eyes, soaked with a purple discolouration. Sad and tired. The words pulsed through the bittersweet serenity.

“Thanks,” he managed, slow and heavy. And then he got to his feet and made it up three stairs before he heaved over and started fucking vomiting.

“Fuck—Dan!” Phil cursed, rushing his hands over his hair. “Dan, just go to the bathroom!”

Dan leaned against the wall and put his hand to his mouth, then dragged his sleeve across the incision of his lips. “Not done,” he choked, and stretched over again.

“Just—” Phil darted up the stairs and pushed Dan’s shoulders forward. “Go, Jesus—Bathroom, Dan. Go to the bathroom and finish in the toilet.”

Dan heaved his feet in a dizzy balance up the stairs and turned the corner, out of sight. Fuck, fuck, fuck. If Bernie and Elise were to arrive back, they’d lose their shit. Phil wouldn’t even be able to cover for Dan, not if he woke up with a hangover tomorrow. As much as he liked to believe Dan in that Bernie wouldn’t kick him out, he sort-of . . . didn’t. So he scrambled for the large bowl in the sink and let the water into it, grabbing the cloth and sponge and heading down the hallway. He flicked on the light and settled below the step where the mess sat to begin scrubbing.

Phil’s head pounded _Dan, Dan, Dan_ there like it was taking a prayer and twisting it all up, tinging it with emotion of such depth that it was impossible to focus on reality. He cared for him so fucking much and, in the grand scheme of things, nothing had changed. Maybe they weren’t best friends anymore and maybe they didn’t feel at all the same, but Phil knew he’d still do anything for Dan and it had been that way since they met. He’d just matured around _I’m here for you_ so he could say _I’ll always be here for you_ with evidence.

Phil sat there scrubbing sick from a carpet in a house that reminded him of nothing but what used to be when he should have been at his friend’s sixteenth birthday party. And it was all for Dan, only ever for Dan.

When he returned to sit on the top step, looking like he’d been drained, needle injected into his arm, Phil didn’t give him the flattery as a second glance. It was silent for the longest time, with Dan just watching the strong movements of the sponge out of the water, against the carpet and then back in.

“I’ll make you a drink in a minute,” Phil muttered eventually, using his dry hand to brush his fringe out of his eyes.

“Why are you so nice to me?” Dan’s question was so fragile. His voice was hoarse and scratched. Phil gaped up to find him sitting there like an ironically lost child and shook his head, squeezing the sponge and continuing on.

“I’m not,” he said. “I don’t mean to be anyway.”

“But you are. I don’t deserve it, you should stop,” It sounded like he was trying to grasp the slur in his voice, squeeze it down.

Phil breathed an empty laugh. “Wish I could.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Because,” Phil sighed. “I can’t.”

“Do you like me?” Dan almost whispered. “Like, how you used to?”

“What do you mean, how I used to? I just don’t want you to get thrown out.”

“Why?”

“ _Because_ , Dan.”

“Because, what?”

“Because I couldn’t—” Phil didn't know how to say it. “I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t have that. Not having you around would be weird.”

“Weird?”

“Yes, Dan. Weird.”

“Weird, how?”

“Weird, like . . . Like you’ve-always-been-around weird.”

“Oh,” Dan mumbled. “So you like me?”

“I don’t know the definition of liking somebody.”

“You like Chris and Cat.”

“Yeah,” Phil looked at him. “But don’t think for a second you’re on the same level as them.”

_You’re higher, so much higher. I’m sorry I can’t explain that._

“But you like me, like, a fraction of that? A tiny bit?” Dan’s eyes glistened in something odd, something that had stayed away too long, and Phil thought _how can you really have no idea?_

“Yeah,” he replied. “A tiny bit.”

“Okay.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else, but Phil interrupted him as he stopped scrubbing the carpet and asked, “Can you tell someone vomited there?”

Dan peered down and shook his head.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded, and so that was that.

“You should go up to bed, sleep off the alcohol in your system,” Phil collected the sponge and cloth and bowl into his hands, sore from the scrubbing. “Sleep is the only thing good for you right now.”

Dan stumbled down the steps with his hand dragging across the wall and Phil watched as he headed down into the living-room. Ignoring it, he moved through into the kitchen and sterilised all he’d used to clean Dan’s sick.

The next hour shuddered by. And the next. Phil’s mind entertained itself, mimicking the sound of the door so it thought Bernie and Elise were going to walk in as he sat there, watching Dan sleep on the couch. He was laying on his side and facing the back of the furniture and Phil just thought he was so much more than he didn’t think he was. It was a cliché tale, one told a thousand times over, but it was a good one. _Damn, was this tale yet to be a good one._

The quietude that lay in the house was unsettling. Phil disappeared into the kitchen deep into its second hour. He clicked the kettle on to make himself a drink and drummed his fingers against the surface, eyes out of the bleak window at the garden. The rhythm proved a simple distraction from the silence.

“Hey.”

Phil flinched at the voice. Dan was there behind him, eyes red and wild and hair messy from its friction with the side of the couch.

“You’ve only slept for an hour,” Phil murmured back, under the sound of the flurrying kettle.

“What?”

“I said you’ve only slept for an hour. Go back to sleep. And in bed this time.”

“I don’t need to sleep anymore. I’m alright, I’m feeling better. Probably exaggerating most of the intoxication—apart from the vomit—because I’m a sort-of fucking psychopath,” Dan shuffled across the kitchen to lean his prominent hip against the side of the counter.

“Whatever. You should text mom,” Phil told him, looking away. “She was worried sick about you.”

“Phone’s dead,” Dan pulled his phone out and put it on the surface.

“Right.”

“Yeah, um,” he started playing with the thread around the ends of his sleeves, like he did when he was little and he was scared of everything. “Can I, like—Ask you to do something for me?”

Phil blinked. “Sorry?”

“Can you do something for me?”

“Uh, it depends . . . What is it?”

Dan chewed down into his bottom lip and continued playing with his sleeves.

“Your nerves sobering you up, there?” Phil queried, as he poured a spoon of coffee into a mug.

“I’m not even really drunk anymore. And I’m not nervous.”

“You are. I know what you do when you are.”

“What do I do?”

“Would you shut up asking me questions and tell me what you want me to do that’s making you so anxious?” Phil huffed. “You really should take your pills.”

Dan mocked the closing statement with a roll of his pretty eyes. He shifted them to stare out of the window but Phil knew he wouldn’t be able to find any consolation in the stretch of inky darkness that suffocated the world on the other side of the glass.

“It’s my mom,” It sounded like there was a blanket covering Dan’s weak statement.

“Elise?” Phil echoed.

Dan scoffed. “No, my mom. My real mom.”

Phil’s eyes widened and he slowed the movement of the spoon in the mug. Dan Howell was talking about his mom. “What . . . about her?”

“She’s . . . ” Dan inhaled, deep. “Look, this is really hard for me, I still don’t—”

“Talk about her?” Phil finished softly.

“Yeah, I don’t like it. I don’t know how to feel about her,” Dan twisted his fingers around his sleeves. “I’ve got a lot of stuff I still need to figure out.”

“What’s this got to do with me?” Phil’s tone dulled the impact of the words.

“I got a letter the other day,” he said, reluctance shadowing his voice. “About her. It came here because, obviously, my address is on a system somewhere and I’m sort-of the only person left. I . . . I need you to come with me down to Manchester.”

“Manchester?” Phil’s voice angled, startled. “Why the hell would you need to go to Manchester?”

“Because that’s where she is and I need to see her.”

“Can’t she, like, come to you?”

“No, that’s impossible,” Dan shook his head.

“How so?”

“She’s—” Dan held his breath. “She’s in prison.”

“She’s in prison? Dan, what the fuck?”

“I know, I know,” he rubbed his hands over his face. “I’m fucked up, we all are. I don’t—”

“Why is she in prison?”

“I can’t tell you yet,” Dan dismissed. “Please, just come with me. She wants to see me.”

“How are we supposed to get to Manchester?” Phil didn’t have any intention of going along with such a profound suggestion in that moment.

“Train. We’re going right now, just say yes,” Dan stepped forward.

“Right now? Dan, we can’t just—How can we—” Phil waved his arms through the air. “We can’t just go and get on a train, it’s the middle of the night.”

“No, it isn’t. Stop exaggerating. And I have the tickets, they’re in my jacket pocket. I used the money I took from Elise to pay for them and I was planning to go by myself tonight but I don’t think I can fucking do it alone.”

“Dan, this is crazy,” Phil thought he’d lost his mind. He probably had, but it was impossible to know where to look. “Manchester?”

“Please, come with me,” Dan reached down and hooked his fingers around Phil’s wrist. There was a spark and a cramping pain that arose from the quick, nostalgic touch. It almost knocked him off his feet.

“What would we tell Bernie and Elise?”

“You wanted to go check out that posh-ass college, right?”

“Yeah, in London.”

“Why the fuck would you want to go back there?” Dan didn’t remain in idleness long enough for his words to soak under Phil’s skin the way they were intending to. “Look, they don’t have to know you’re in Manchester. Just tell them you’re in London because you were offered a tour. You got back tonight and found the letter on the counter—say I opened it or something and just never showed you—and it said you had to be there for tomorrow morning. You had no choice but to go now.”

Phil fucking loathed Dan in that moment, in that kitchen. His eyes spoke understanding of the currents his fingers against the wrist were sending to the heart. “And what about you?” Phil whispered, all he was capable of. “Where would you say you were?”

“I tagged along,” he shrugged. “Wanted to check it out myself.”

“You expect them to believe you care for this college?”

“Well, they’ll have to if I’m not _here_ ,” Dan stepped back, dropping Phil’s wrist. “Come on. We’ll be back by Monday, definitely, and we’ve got a good enough excuse. You’ll be able to convince them easily because you never lie about anything—”

“Is that why you want me to come with you? So I can lie for you and get away with it?”

“No, I want you to come because you’re the only one who gets it,” Dan looked terribly uncomfortable again. “I’d bring Abi or even Tanner but . . . but they wouldn't take it seriously. They’d probably take the piss if they ever found out my mom was in jail.”

Phil twisted his hands though his hair, panicked again at the possibility of agreeing. “Where would we stay?”

“We’d find somewhere.”

“Dan.”

“We would,” Dan grabbed Phil’s wrist again. “Please. I’m not even that drunk anymore, man, I vomited and slept loads. I can do this.”

“Do it, then,” Phil shrugged him off. 

“I can’t. I . . . I can’t do it without _you_.”

Phil breathed, immeasurable yet perplexingly careful. “Fine, okay. I’ll come. When does the train leave?”

“In, like, an hour.”

“Jesus, we can’t even get to the train station. How do we—Do you have spare change to catch a bus?”

“Uh,” Dan dug his hands into his pockets and retrieved a couple pound coins.

“Forget it, I’ll sort it,” Phil switched the kitchen light off and pulled on Dan's arm. “Come on.”

And so they spent fifteen minutes gathering all they needed, which scratched up to two somewhat weightless backpacks. Phil assembled his art-pad and all the money he’d saved over the course of two years under the zipper. It was around two hundred and fifty something.

They left the house to find the bus stop through the gloom of a twilight street. Dan followed Phil into the middle of the bus and sat down beside him.

“Are you okay?” Dan asked, quiet.

“Great,” Phil’s mutter of sarcasm came firm. “I can’t believe we’re doing this, Dan. I can’t believe I’m doing this for you—Honest to God, I’d do anything you fucking asked me to.”

Dan’s lips lifted just slightly and he hugged his scraggly arms around his bag. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

“I’m sorry you're suddenly sober enough to ask me to.”

“Vomiting and sleeping does wonders, it seems. Feel like shit still. But, anyway, I was planning on going regardless of alcohol,” Dan pulled the tickets out of his pocket. “Here’s your ticket, the drive down to the station isn’t long.”

Phil took it from him with the faintest of smiles and tucked it up his sleeve. _God._

><

The train station looked peculiar in its vacant state. They were catching the final train of the day and everything seemed so exceptionally loud as they clambered on and shuffled through awkwardly for a seat. It wasn’t of considerable difficulty finding one. There were very few passengers. Dan settled against the window as the train hummed beneath them, and Phil jerked his eyes between him and his phone.

“Don’t text yet, they won’t be back,” Dan said.

“They might be. What am I supposed to do, wait for them to realise we’re not there?”

“If you want.”

“Dan, I’ll _kill_ them. They might have heart failure or something.”

“God, Phil,” Dan’s sigh was exaggerated. “Don’t joke about that.”

“Sorry, I forgot for a second there that you care about them.”

“I do.”

Phil shook his head. “Of course.”

He went right back to gazing at Dan, and Dan being so sweetly oblivious. The blanket of feeling was there, always, under their connection. Phil had always been hazy in that field, and he always knew his connection to Dan was different. It seemed that fact was so flawlessly defended with evidence here; there weren’t many people he’d get on a train to Manchester on a Friday night for.

The conversation remained deceased for the majority of the journey. Dan lingered somewhere between conscious and unconscious as Phil texted Elise saying he and Dan had gone to London, not to worry and that he’d call her to explain tomorrow. He then proceeded to turn his phone off and take his art-pad out of his bag. He began constructing the sketch for his next piece. It was just a tad of fun really, but the drawings in his yellow pad meant a lot to him. They were leaden with substance and continual patterns of thought.

Phil was halfway through the outline of a man’s fist when Dan came to his groggy senses and wrapped Phil’s attention up between his own fingers upon, “Hey, you’re drawing.”

Phil nodded to him and the thinnest of smiles danced across his lips.

“What is it? Can I see?”

“I don’t show people these. It’s my yellow pad. I keep them all a secret.”

Dan’s expression was controlled. “You know I’ll just sneak a look when you’re asleep.”

“Whatever. But I’m not showing you.”

“I bet they’re all just drawings of me,” Dan said, under his breath.

“You wish.”

“You look at me enough.”

“What?” Phil splintered his attention up. “No, I don’t.”

“You do,” Dan mumbled, drowsy. “All the time, you know you do.”

“Shut up, Dan,” Phil felt the warmth riding up the back of his neck. “I’m trying to concentrate, you’re distracting me.”

“How are you not tired?”

“I can run on little sleep.”

“Well, so can I. Usually.”

“It’s probably just because you drank a lot tonight. Even though you slept most of that shit off earlier.”

“Yeah.”

“So, uh,” he focused on the slow actions of his pencil and not the situation at hand. “About your mom. How come you’ve never told me about her until now?”

“I didn’t know how,” Dan wasn’t looking at him but neither was Phil. He thought maybe that was okay. “Like, when we were kids, I didn’t know how. It just got harder as we grew up. I didn’t want to casually drop it into conversation that my mom was in prison because you’d think I was a psycho.”

“I already thought that, Dan,” Phil mumbled, down at his art-pad. “You’re _insane_.”

Dan smiled against his hand.

“But you could’ve told me,” Phil attached. “I wouldn’t have flipped my shit or disowned you or whatever.”

“I always thought you’d drop me as a kid. That was my biggest, like, fear for our friendship or whatever. I was deviant and a bit of a recluse. People didn’t like me because of my abnormality and it was instinctual not to,” Dan’s words flooded out like water gushing from a drain. “I spent so long fretting over how the popular perception would eventually find a way to influence yours. And I cared about that so much, not because they were right but because they weren't. You—You weren’t like anybody else I’d ever met before. I had to find a way to minimise their hostility and in that came materialising all I said I’d never be. The person I was when I was a kid is the author of my story and now I’m just, like, this character. This person who is both everything I wanted to be and everything I didn’t. I believe that’d how authors create the characters they connect with the most; they’re the people they wished they were. Only, the character I created got all tangled across the lines of morality and you ended up hating me because I failed in the art of expression. My biggest fear was losing you to my true nature and when I turned myself completely upside down, I just lost you anyway.”

“So . . . ” Phil shifted through all the information, sorting it into different shelves of his mind. Dan had spoken with such eloquence and articulation. “What’s the moral there?”

“The moral? I don’t know. Haven’t got there yet. Right now it would be to not use such pretentious diction.”

Phil shared his smile. “You sounded like a poet.”

Dan shrugged against the window, eyes fluttering closed. “More like the spawn of Epicurus and Aristotle.”

“As _if_ you know Greek philosophers,” Phil stretched forward, just as much amused as intrigued.

“You underestimate me, Phil.”

“Clearly I do, in knowledge. I thought you were, like, an above average student?”

Dan laughed, once. “Ouch.”

“No, I didn’t mean it like _that_.”

“How did you mean it, then?” Dan delayed on a calm smile. He still had his eyes closed and he looked like a work of art sitting there by the window, he really fucking did.

“I meant . . . I don’t know. Maybe I listen to public opinion too much, too.”

“I say we all do,” Dan opened his eyes. “But, yeah, you obviously underestimate my knowledge.”

Phil scrunched his nose. “What did you score for English in our assessments a couple weeks back?”

“E.”

“Shut up.“

“Fine, A. Technically A+ but my teacher hates the ground I walk on. I missed, like, two marks. There’s no way it was an A.”

“But—” It was strange because Phil believed him, despite how implausible it was that Dan Howell had scored higher than him on an exam. “But you never study. For anything.”

“I know a lot of shit about English. I read a lot, used to all the time as a kid,” They shared a glance that felt like remember when we read this and remember when we read that. “I had this strange thing where I memorised the author every time I read a book, in case I ever had to trace it and forgot the title. I don’t know if you ever noticed that.”

Phil considered for a moment, then, “Who wrote _Perfume_? That one about the guy who could smell—”

“Patrick Süskind.”

Damn.

“What about _A Tale of Two Cities_?”

“Charles Dickens. Sorta easy, Phil. God.”

Phil mocked a glare. “ _Winnie The Pooh_?”

Dan looked so ecstatic at the surface of the story that he moved his body forward. “A. A Milne. I finished them . . . at the orphanage.”

“I remember,” Phil whispered, around such a strong smile. “Didn’t know if you would though, I was testing.”

“How do you remember that?”

“Because you were, like, in love with them.”

“I’d marry all the characters if they weren’t, you know, insentient beings.”

“That’s called polygamy, Dan.”

“That’s called point-scoring with showing off your vocabulary of intelligent words, Phil.”

“I’m not stupid enough to challenge you on that one. Greek philosophers I can do, though. That stuff’s really interesting. What do you know?”

Dan's smile flickered to teasing. “What don’t I? Epicurus, Socrates, Aristotle, Plato.”

“Shut up. You’re such a flamboyant idiot.”

“Flamboyant? Me?” Dan scoffed, dramatic. “You got the wrong guy.”

“No way,” Phil’s teeth came down over his bottom lip to conceal his laughter on the quiet train. “I got the right guy.”

Dan watched him for a while, head titled sideways like he was looking at something captivating. A painting or a diary entry or a . . . novel. Eventually, he spoke again, and it was quieter this time. “Can’t believe we were at Cat’s party a couple hours ago.”

“I can’t believe you vomited on the stairs.”

“I can’t believe you cleaned it up.”

“I can’t believe I agreed to come here with you.”

“I can’t believe I finally told you about my mom being locked up.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me until now.”

“I can’t believe all you got from my dramatic speech five minutes ago was to search for a moral.”

Phil halted. “I didn’t,” he insisted, soft. “I just didn’t know whether you wanted me to talk about it or not.”

That was the truth.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because sometimes you say things and you don want people to really acknowledge them. At least, not audibly. Sometimes it’s better to know they heard but had enough respect for your personal business to not talk about it.”

“Personal business?” Dan mocked. “Surely you’re involved in that? You’re my brother.”

“God,” Phil sighed at the term. “Let’s just agree to not address one another as siblings this trip. It’s still so weird.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s an excuse a bit for me, sometimes.”

Phil felt a strange feeling in his chest. “How?”

Dan shook his head and closed his eyes again. “Sometimes you say things and you don’t want people to really acknowledge them, Phil.”

><

They arrived in Manchester at some unearthly hour. Could’ve been one, could’ve been two, could’ve been three. Phil checked the time—maybe, probably, likely—but he lost it in the haze of trying to find a hotel for them to stay the night at. Just the night. Dan was about as good use as a sleepwalker in this time of need and Phil gave up even bothering to talk to him. As he queried around for advice, he kept a hand on the small of Dan’s back to guide him tenderly around the sleeping city.

It took such a prolonged duration of time to locate a hotel that, when a cheap one finally presented itself, Phil was prepared to throw all his money at its facade just for a place to sleep. Luckily, it didn’t cost too much, and they ended up in a room on the third floor. Phil, carrying both his and Dan’s backpack, plonked them onto the dresser and flicked on the light. Dan was already laying down in the centre of a double bed.

“Fuck,” Phil groaned, to himself. “I said _two_ beds, Jesus.”

Dan mumbled something incoherent back and Phil took his jacket off before moving to the side of the bed. “Dan,” he said. “There’s only one bed, can you move across a little?”

Again, all he received was something that would have made no sense to anybody. So he carefully leaned across and hooked his arms under Dan’s thin frame, lifting him slightly above the mattress to lay him down on the left side. It was somewhat agonising, how simple it all was to just . . . be there. In the moment. Without the pressure, without the words, without anything but two bodies and two hearts.

><

Phil came to his senses that next morning to find Dan resting on the edge of the bed with morning sunlight squaring down into his eyes.

“Hey,” Phil rubbed his eyes, voice thick. “Morning.”

Dan turned slightly and his voice was somewhat cold. “Morning.”

Too drowsy to contemplate, Phil focused on understanding his senses. “You, uh, you alright?”

Dan nodded, slowly. “Fine.”

Phil stretched his arms above his head. “What’s the matter? Is it the bed? I asked for two, I swear, but the guy working last night looked about _nine_. I didn’t have the energy to ask for a change and you'd already pretty much fallen asleep. We can ask for a change today, if you want?”

“No, it’s—” Dan scratched the back of his neck and ran his fingers up through his hair. “It’s fine. It’s not that. Just don’t make a big deal of that.”

“Okay,” Phil stared at the boy’s back. “So, what is it?”

“I feel like shit. Not the hangover shit but—I gotta see my mom today. Fucking hell, I’ve got to see her today. It’s been so long, I don’t . . . What do I even say to her?”

“Did she say why she wanted to see you?”

“Just wanted to talk. Apparently.”

“Apparently?”

“I don’t know, it’s weird. You’re there for a massive fuckup that gets your son is sent off to a fucking orphanage and you invite him to your cell, like, a decade later for a chat?” Dan shook his head, but Phil’s mind was still on _massive fuckup._ What kind of _massive fuckup_ could get a kid orphaned?

“Fuckup?” Phil didn’t even mean to echo it.

“Uh, yeah,” Dan stood up. “Do you want to shower first or me?”

“Oh—You can.”

“What?”

“You can. You can shower first.”

“Okay,” Dan gathered his belongings out of his bag and moved towards the bathroom. He grappled for a strangled intake of air. “Stop making this weird, Phil. Stop focusing on shit I obviously don’t want you to focus on.”

Phil didn’t want to argue with him. Not today. “What do you want me to do?”

“Just—” Dan put his hand on the door. “Be here for me. It’s why I asked you to come because you're the only one that cares about my selfish ass. You like me ‘a tiny bit’, remember?”

And then he stumbled into the bathroom.

><

They headed down to Manchester’s nearest police station at twelve, stopping off to grab a sandwich on the way. Phil ate and had a drink but Dan insisted he wasn’t hungry—not even slightly, he said. There was a sickness smudged across his nerves and this boy juxtaposed the one on the train. Phil was treading carefully around him, even when they were sat waiting in the station for the visiting time to begin.

“Are you coming in with me?” Dan eventually found his voice. Phil wondered where it had been all this time, but didn’t want to scare it off again.

“Do you want me to?”

“You can. Or you can wait here.”

“Shall I . . . wait here?”

“It’s kind-of a dick move to for me to make you stay out here when I dragged you all the way to Manchester,” Dan held tight onto his sleeves.

“Not really,” Phil evened, patient. “If you want to go it alone, I understand.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

Dan shook his head. “Just promise not to . . . hate me, okay?”

It felt like they were kids again and little Dan was pleading with little Phil to figure out all his secrets he wouldn’t dare say. Only, they were older now, and being older equated to a police station and a frightening fate and pinkies concealed under too-tight sleeves.

Phil said it anyway. It didn’t feel the same.

“I promise.”

Before it was able to be comprehended, Phil was following Dan through into a room where outside met inside and the uniform clinging to inmates bled across Phil’s attention.

“Do you see her?” he asked, as Dan stretched above the small crowd of people.

“I don’t even fucking know what the woman looks like,” Dan’s laugh was melancholic.

“Yeah, but surely you could recognise—”

“Fuck, she’s there,” Dan shrank in on himself. He moved an inch closer towards Phil’s side and Phil was almost knocked off his feet when an urging _hold him_ attacked his heart.

“What? Are you sure?” Phil stretched over the heads to follow Dan’s distant gaze.

“Yes, I’m sure. My God, I can’t—Phil, I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can, of course you can,” Phil gripped Dan’s shoulder, like physical balance was just as good as mental. “Count to ten with me, okay?”

“We’re blocking the entrance—”

“Fuck the entrance, count to ten,” Phil spread his palm out across Dan’s shoulder. It felt like that first day at their new school in Scotland, when Dan had fallen to his feet and choked on all the eyes and been diagnosed with ‘moderate anxiety’. But here he stood, sixteen, and—

“I can’t do this, Phil, I’m gonna _die_ —”

“No, no,” Phil shifted them to the side, secluded from the woman in the corner that was peering over the people in search of her son. “You can do this, Dan. I’m gonna be right there with you, okay, I promise you I’ll be right there. I won’t ask any questions, I won’t even say anything if you don’t want me to. It’s going to be alright, this is your mom.”

“She _hates_ me,” Dan raised trembling hands to his face. “She hates me and I hate her because she hates me. She fucking left me, she let me suffer—”

“Shh, shh,” Phil squeezed on Dan’s shoulders again. _Don’t be scared, I’d never let anything happen_. “It’s good you’re here, it’s good you’re trying. Let’s do it together, yeah?”

Dan stood there quivering for just a while longer, before pushing himself close to Phil’s side to wander across to the woman at the table. There were two chairs before her and she bolted up at the presence of the boys.

“Dan,” The woman put a hand to her throat, then up to conceal a light gasp. “Dan, baby, you made it.”

She reached across the table with arms so vastly spread, Phil wondered if she was trying to reach for the both of them. Dan didn’t move even slightly towards her—somehow, it was an instinct—and carefully took back a chair to sit down. Phil followed beside him.

“It’s so great to see you,” Her smile was tinged with an unspeakable fear. She was the very picture of a nightmare; matted hair, chaotic eyes, expressions like they were tossed on rather than stitched. She glanced to Phil. “Who’s this, then? Dan? Who’s this?”

“It’s, uh,” Dan was drumming his fingers frantically against the table. Phil thought about sliding his hand over them, stilling and comforting them right along with his nerves. “It’s Phil.”

“Hello,” Phil felt like that was an invitation for a cold greeting. He had no idea _what_ this woman had done, it was difficult to show any compassion.

Dan’s mother smiled nevertheless, but it was artificial. “Hello. So, you’ve tagged along. What are you to my son? Friend? Boyfriend?”

She laughed cruelly on the final word and Dan jolted, arms coming back to himself under the table. “He’s not my boyfriend, he’s not my—he’s not.”

“What is he, then?”

“He’s—”

“A friend,” Phil sensed Dan wanted to avoid the whole brother, adoptive family shit. “I’m a friend.”

“A friend,” Dan’s mother echoed. She turned to address her son. “And does he know about—”

“No. But he's going to, clearly. What with the way this is going,” Dan’s teeth were tightly gritted and Phil tried to compress his curiosity.

The woman barely smiled this time. Dan started playing with the fabric of his shirt and there was a silence.

“I’m so glad you came, Dan. You’re so grown up, so handsome. You must be—” she pinched her nose. “God, you must be—”

“Sixteen,” Dan finished with a harsh nod. “I’m sixteen, mom.”

“Yes, sixteen, of course. How’s school?”

“You don’t care,” Dan choked. “Don’t act like you ever did. Why am I here?”

“Because I asked to see you.”

“Why?”

“I had to know you were okay. I had to know you made it out a better kid than you were when I last saw you. And, God, you were broken. You were so broken, baby, and I tried to help you,” Dan’s mother’s eyes welled too quickly with tears, voice strangled. “I tried to fix the mess he’d made, but I couldn’t. I was too sick myself.”

Phil was so bewildered, so confused. He sat there and felt like he was looking through somebody’s window, listening in on a family dispute. This was so much more than a dispute though. This was Dan’s life, the reason his mind was muddled. The reason he was a mess. And he was a mess. A gorgeous and chaotically beautiful mess, but he was a mess.

“You weren’t sick,” Dan spat at her. “You wouldn’t be in here if you were sick.”

“I was put in here because they didn’t understand. Nobody understood, Dan. Not you, not your grandparents, not your father.”

“No,” Dan growled out the word and gripped onto the edges of the table. “Don’t you dare talk about him. Nobody understood you because there was nothing to understand, you were a fucking _liar_ —”

“How _dare_ you talk to me like that—”

“What?” Dan was crying, maybe. Phil didn’t have it in him to take his eyes off the woman. “I’ve got a voice now, mom? I can yell and scream for all the times I couldn’t and needed to.”

“Baby, please,” Dan’s mother reached a hand forward to touch her son’s cheek, and Dan thrashed her away.

“You let me go,” he almost whimpered. “I begged you not to make me go but you didn’t even—You didn’t even think twice about me!”

“That’s a lie!” Dan’s mother slammed her hand down on the table. “I loved you, you were my baby! I’d have done anything to keep you safe and keeping you safe meant sending you away—”

“Bullshit. _You_ could have saved me. So many fucking times.”

“I had to get you away from your father and I.”

“So you admit you were the problem, too? You caused this, too?” Dan waved his hand before himself. Phil’s heart wrenched.

“I couldn’t do anything, Dan!” she squeaked. “I was terrified of him, too!”

“All you did was clean,” Dan growled. “All you ever fucking did was _clean_.”

“It was the only thing I knew how to, baby—”

“How about you fucking clean your mess of a goddamn husband? You know, so he stopped fucking doing shit to me!” Dan stood up so fast that the chair tumbled over with a clatter. He entangled his fingers in his hair and continued on, despite all the attention. “He did stuff to me, mom—You were fucking there when he did it and you just—You stood there and you cleaned—He touched me and you cleaned all the mess he left but you never _stopped_ him—You let him hurt me like that, touch me like that—”

“Dan,” Phil clambered to his feet. “Oh, God, Dan—”

He didn’t know where to touch and what to say because he wasn’t sure anything could be done and even if it could, he didn’t know what it was. He was looking at a boy that had never known anything good, never felt anything good. He’d been dragged through his childhood into a painful maturity that pounded its fist against his innocent heart, like _I will take this_ and _I will take that_ and maybe it didn’t even matter that Phil would do anything to make him happy because maybe he wouldn’t even know what it was. Maybe he’d look at it like a maths equation, like something he’d push to the side because it was too complex and too deep into the unknown. Too much all at once. And, yeah, Phil would do anything for him, give everything to him. But it became terribly apparent in that moment—that awful moment in that frantic station where a boy just wasn’t _allowed_ to scream about how his parents hurt him so deeply, he was still aching all these years later—that Dan didn’t need everything. He’d done pretty damn good without it so far. Instead, he just needed something. Just a little bit. Just a fragment to cling onto to get him through the night because it was day-by-day, one step after the other. Just a little bit was all Dan Howell would ever need, because a child without a scream only ever wishes for so much as a whimper, so much as one _Winnie The Pooh_ tale at three in the morning and one best friend to teach him that the sky always, _always_ bends before it crashes down.

“Please, Dan, sit down,” Dan’s mother was talking again. Crying, too. “You’re gonna get thrown out, darling, you’re—”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Dan shoved the table forward and she whimpered. “ _Fuck you_ for letting me hurt like that and _fuck you_ for sending me away and _fuck you_ for never caring about the fact that I got spat on and called a _fag_ so many times that I—” he forced a finger into his chest. “ _I_ started hating myself just like he wanted me to! _Fuck you_ for ruining my childhood and _fuck you_ for ruining my life and _fuck you_ for all these scars and _fuck you_ for— _Fuck you_ , mom—”

“Dan, okay,” Everything hurt in Phil’s chest, everything felt so heavy. He hooked an arm around Dan’s trembling shoulders and forced him through all the people and all the officers who were trained only in the art of you have to leave now, sir and not in empathy. Nobody fucking cared that this boy’s heart was bleeding out all over his shirt and onto the floor and that he’d dragged his best friend to Manchester because he couldn’t face the nightmares of his past alone.

They stumbled out onto the sidewalk and Dan was crying, sobbing, body shaking as he started walking.

“Dan!” Phil ran after him. “Dan, please, don’t walk away from me!”

“Just leave me _alone_ , Phil.”

He didn’t turn back and Phil watched him go.

><

Ringing Elise when Phil got back to the hotel room alone was arduous, needless to say, because he had to sit there and laugh with her about the hilarity of just suddenly having to go to London when Dan—his best friend, Dan—was out there somewhere, cold and scared and scattering pieces of himself across the ground his feet clattered. He apologised to her about leaving it so long to ring her back but conjured the quick excuse of being on the college tour. She bought it, of course. They said goodbyes and hung up, and Phil threw his phone against the headboard, crying before he even hit the floor.

He buried his face in his arms and sobbed Dan’s name out into the silence of a cheap and empty hotel room. He smashed his fist into the wall once for Dan’s father and once for Dan’s mother and once for Harrison and once for Tanner and once for Abi and—

And Dan came home some time in the early hours of the morning. It wasn’t home there, of course it wasn’t. Home wasn’t bloody fists and abusive parents and the sound of Manchester. But home was Dan and Phil and right there, as they found one another on the floor and Phil hugged him to his chest, it was home.

It was just them.

All along, it was only ever them.

“I’m sorry,” Dan fisted Phil’s shirt as he cried against his neck. He smelt of smoke and broken promises and coconut fucking shampoo. Phil held him like a baby, slumped on the floor; a bleeding fist and a bleeding heart.

“Don’t be sorry,” He ran his fingers through Dan’s messy hair. “Don’t ever, _ever_ be sorry.”

“I-I fucked up,” he sobbed. “I ran away and I fucked up but I w-wanted to come home—I came back, Phil, I came back to you—I-I’m so sorry—”

“Shh,” Phil breathed against his ear, arms so tight around his waist. _I came back to you._ Dan shifted on his lap, aching to get closer. The slow drag of their feelings wasn’t important here, for the first time. Because there was nothing and that was all mattered. “I’m not mad, Dan, I couldn’t ever be mad. Don’t apologise to me or to anyone.”

“It hurts, Phil,” The hem of Dan’s shirt was soaking wet from his tears and Phil felt a shiver flutter under his skin. “Please, Phil, make it go away.”

“Dan—”

“Make it go away, I don’t care w-what you do—Just make it go away,” Dan shuffled back off Phil’s lap and pulled on his hair. “Please, make it leave me alone—”

“Okay, Dan, okay,” Phil scooped him up into his arms with a similar ease as the night before and pulled back the corner of the bedsheets with his painless hand. He kept his arms around the boy even after laying them both down, even after Dan had entangled their bodies with desperate hands and shook with the strength in which he clung on.

“You’re okay,” Phil hushed into his ear. “I’m here, you’re okay. You hear me? It’s alright.”

“I’m s-so scared,” Dan stammered out through weeps. He was reached up against Phil’s ear and hovered his lips above the skin covering that area of his neck, all wet from his tears and hot from his fast breathing.

“Don’t be scared, please don’t be scared,” Phil tightened their proximity, arm coming around Dan’s waist. There was silence for such a long time, so long that Dan’s breathing was just as loud as his light crying. Phil carefully threaded his fingers through the boy’s messy curls—the edges damp from the wetness of his face—and mumbled, “How many times?”

Dan’s chest stuttered over a sob. “What?”

“How many times did he hurt you?” Phil dragged his fingers down the back of Dan’s head, hair all caught between them. _Are you okay yet?_

“I-I can’t remember,” Dan cried. “Really, I c-can’t. So many. So many, I’ve forgotten everything but that it really fucking hurt.”

Phil was crying a bit, tears lapping down his chin onto the boy’s head. “God,” he swallowed. “Was it . . . Was it when you were really young?”

He was only ten when _they_ met.

Dan nodded. “I was just a baby, Phil, I didn’t do a-anything to him, to anyone."

“I know,” Phil turned to bury his face in Dan’s chest and felt his arms come around his neck, hugging him closer. “I know. If ever I fucking saw him, God I’d—I’d kill him.”

The thought of this man’s hands on Dan in the places not even Phil was allowed to smear love and self-worth was disgusting, was sickening. Phil’s mind played with the word innocence and found that it was just a term synonymous with all that was untold. All those moments of uncertainty that came between all those moments of bold confidence.

“I don’t even know where he is,” Dan admitted, soft and broken. “I-I have no idea. He was arrested with my mother, but it’d be i-impossible to find him.”

“Do you want to?”

“I don’t know,” Dan gave a laugh that was sprinkled with tasteless emotion. “Probably. Might wanna connect my fist with his dirty fucking face.”

“I could do that for you,” Phil whispered, meaning every word. Dan rubbed his nose against Phil’s shoulder and sniffed.

“I’m so sorry you saw that today. I had no idea it would happen, I was absolutely terrified before—” A low sob sliced through his voice and Phil squeezed him, chest tightening with his hold. “—before I saw her.”

“She didn’t . . . do anything, did she?” Phil held his breath. If he’d sat there opposite a woman that—

“No,” The response was defeated because it came from Dan. This tragic boy and all his tragic words. “She—She never. She just stood there. She stood there and she let him do it to me, Phil. He was h-hurting me and ma-making me do all this shit and she was my fucking mother and—And she was supposed to protect me—”

He shuffled from Phil to the other side of the bed and pushed his face into the corner of the pillow, teeth coming down into the fabric to stifle his crying. Phil wanted to help him, to do something, but he knew these things took time. It had taken this long for him to even admit to this. And so Phil gave him no more than a gentle hand against his back and patient eyes.

“Nobody’s ever protected me,” Dan forced out eventually, and it looked like it took so much. Four words and he was crumbling again. His face was red and his eyes were tired and his lips were cracked.

Phil wanted to tell him that he had, that he always had, but that was a lie. It such a fucking lie because he hadn’t protected him, he hadn’t done anything but watch from the sidelines. Watch him get called names and watch him get beat-up on a field and watch him leave behind who he was (which was his fucking fault, too) and watch him scream at his mother and watch him cry and cry. Phil had never done anything but stand there and watch and he was no better than Dan’s mother in that sense, so he found nothing in him but a weak, “I can,” because it was better than, “I have.”

“You do,” Dan said, face mushed against the pillow. He was looking at Phil like he was everything. “You already do. All the time, the only one.”

“How?” Phil didn’t even whisper it, wasn’t even sure it came out. “I never do anything. I’m just here, I’ve just stuck around. I can’t be doing that good of a job if you were convinced I hated you.”

“No, Phil, you—” Dan took a shaky breath and his damp eyelashes fluttered against the pillow. “You mean everything to me.”

Phil’s heart lunged and he balled the bedsheets around his face to cover his inappropriate smile. This wasn’t the time for such a thing, but he knew his mind would never get sick of replaying those words. “Yeah?” he mumbled.

Dan sniffed, breathing still unsteady from his crying. “Yeah. And I’m so fucking glad you know about a-all that shit now, I’m so glad I can talk to someone.”

“You could anyway. I was never much use but I’ve never not existed. I’m good at listening, too. Good at listening to you.”

“It’s hard though. It’s so hard to just say that your father abused you and your mother d-did shit about it and they’re both in prison if it doesn’t come up in conversation. And when could something so dysfunctional come up in conversation? It doesn’t. Ever. So I waited a-and waited for you to figure it out—I knew you saw them, all the bruises and the scars. Even before that day when Tanner saw them and I made some bullshit excuse up. But you were too lovely to ask me anything and I so never told.”

“With your father,” Phil said, under his breath. “Was the abuse physical or . . . ”

He had to know. He had to know and understand what had happened if he could be any use to him at all.

“ _Sexual_?” Dan shook a bit around the word. “Both.”

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” Phil reached across and brushed Dan’s hair behind his ear, then carefully moved his hand down his cheek. He was crying again. It was difficult to know when—if at all—he’d stopped. “I’m so sorry he did that to you, all the times he did.”

“Not your fault. Not ever your fault, Phil,” Dan promised, somewhere from the back of his throat.

“Not yours either,” Phil told him. “You know that, right? You don’t blame yourself?”

“No, not anymore. That came so slowly, realising it wasn’t my fault. I always thought it must be just because I was the one who’d suffered in all of it—the one who always suffered, even after it was over—and it only made sense i-in my head that I was suffering so much because I’d done something wrong—”

“You hadn’t, you didn’t,” Phil interrupted, and Dan shook his head slightly with the thinnest of desolate smiles.

“Not finished yet,” he whispered, soft and with calm eyes. “Just let me finish, okay?”

“Okay,” Phil felt a spark of guilt. Dan needed to release all this, it became apparent. To smash the bottle in which he’d kept it all fastened away. “I'm sorry, I’m listening. This is your time.”

“I know I did nothing wrong. The victim is just that and, even more so, I was a kid. I couldn’t push him off, I couldn’t make him stop. The fact that there came a time when I stopped trying to wasn’t my fault either. He used me because I was easy; I was his pathetic little toy that he could fuck around with whenever he wanted and he knew I wouldn’t say a word because he was my dad and I loved him, I did,” Dan’s fist that was laying on the pillow below his head clenched. “When I learned that he’d just manipulated me in order to fulfil all his horrible fantasies, I was so fucking angry. My God, Phil, I was so angry. I kept searching and searching for him on the Internet but all I found were these articles about his trial and his sentence and I can't even remember what that was. It didn’t matter and it still doesn't.”

“When did you realise?” Phil whispered, when it seemed Dan had paused. “That it wasn’t your fault? And you started looking for him?”

“Thirteen, maybe twelve,” Dan’s composure was so excellent, so impressive. The tears had dissolved in his eyes and he had grasped his breathing. “I had all this hate in me for him and it fed off the hatred I had for myself. It was this weird, like, juxtaposition. The fact that I hated him made me forget that I hated myself for a little bit and I liked that. I liked that I could use him like that because he’d used me. When I told you on the train that this person I am now is everything I wanted to be and everything I didn’t, that was so true. The only reason I remember saying that is because my head has been obsessed with it since I realised it so long ago and I think about it all the time, even when I’m doing the shit I don’t want to. I hated myself because I was just that kid who did nothing, who never did anything, and I thought I could fix that by doing something. But I learnt that by changing who I was, I just hated myself even more and it sucked, not because I’m in the same place I started, but because I didn’t start anywhere. I went in a circle but a circle doesn’t start or end anywhere. And what I wanted, Phil, what I really wanted was just for it to have never happened. That was it. That will only ever be it. It’s so simple, isn’t it?”

“But it did,” Phil’s face was damp and throat was dry after the boy’s whispered speech. “It happened. How do you—How do you move on?”

“By taking it with you,” Dan said, slowly. “By knowing that it happened and it will have happened regardless of who you are. Regardless of whether you’re the kid too frightened to defend himself of the kid who picks on those kids. It was so easy to change myself because I needed something to fall back on, I needed a way to hurt the world because I’d spent so long getting hurt by it. Hitting some kid at school is like therapy to me because I look at him in pain and always make a comparison to myself. I want to fucking ask him why he’s crying because he could never feel what I did, could never feel what I still do. And people are so weird, Phil, they don't ever understand anything until you tell them. Then it’s like the fact that there was reasoning makes you a better person but that’s bullshit because being abused by your father is not a reason to punch a kid, it’s not a reason to abuse people who did nothing wrong. It’s not okay to ‘take it out on others’ or to change so much about yourself and realise too late that all you wanted to change was the thing you didn’t, the thing you never could. It’s not okay to have a father who fucking rapes you or a mother who masks herself with OCD to excuse the fact she did nothing to stop it or to believe you aren’t wanted or to be called words that sound the same as a nightmare with nobody to curl up to. But it’s also not okay to hit people and steal money and chain-smoke cigarettes. Don’t you see? I am everything I didn’t want to be but that’s okay because I know that and in knowing that I am everything I ever wanted to.”

Phil couldn’t breathe when Dan had finished talking, or rather just had to stop. For they were both crying, each losing the hold on their composure deep into the beautiful words and choking on the pain of what acceptance meant to a broken boy. Phil had never felt anything so powerful in his life as he did when he looked at Dan through wet, hooded eyes and wrapped his arms around his waist. They lay there together, quiet and frightened because it was only ever their way, and nothing in the world could come between such a connection. Not failing parents or pretty girlfriends or London orphanages or childhood stories or _I probably love you_ and _I probably love you, too._

There was none of that. There didn’t need to be.

“You’re amazing,” Phil ran his fingers up back through Dan’s hair. He whimpered at the compliment like it was the sweetest thing he'd ever heard, tears coming to soothe his cracked lips. “You’re so amazing and I—I’m so proud of you. Nobody’s ever proud of you, so I am. I’ll be so proud of you that it won’t even matter what anybody else thinks.”

“It still hurts,” Dan choked out. He’d been strong for much too long, was all. “It still hurts so f-fucking much and seeing her today only made me realise that wounds like these never heal, so they can never be opened up. They’re always there, a-always hurting. I’m so glad you know, mostly because I don’t know how much longer I-I could’ve lasted on my own.”

“Not anymore,” Phil dropped his hand and rested it on his shoulders, squeezing there to comfort him. “You’re not on your own ever again, do you understand? Fuck them. Fuck everyone who made you feel this way and everyone who told you it was okay to _ever_ have to last on your own.”

“You’re here,” Dan’s voice was weighted with a strange sort-of relief. “God, you’re here. Still, after all that. And after all this time.”

Phil pushed his face forward so he breathed hot breath across Dan’s nose— _one best friend to teach him_ —and watched his eyes flutter, hand moving back to his hair. He grazed his fingers through the softness of his curls breaking out like a terrible metaphor and—

_Look at me, I came back to you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite being the heaviest, this is my favourite chapter in the entire fic. It’s actually really important to me just as a writer in general so I wanted to just talk about it a bit.
> 
> One of the most important recurring themes in this story is the constant juxtaposition of childhood and maturity. It’s a sort of venture into almost-adulthood, and travels through the most important parts of a person’s life. The whole idea of referencing children’s novels and that time of soft innocence stems from the fact that I want it to mirror the bleak darkness they’re growing into. Dan and Phil have this sort-of world, this universe only they understand. It’s a universe that comes between everybody else’s and I believe that’s the definition of a true connection. To feel like you are with that person in your own space, away from the space in which the rest of the generic ‘earth’ lives.
> 
> This chapter was important because it allowed Dan and Phil to have a greater understanding of their universe. It’s not always daylight. It’s not always innocence and little smiles but, at the same time, it’s not always silence either.
> 
> I’ll come back and edit this again tomorrow after I’ve slept so it makes more sense or something idk. I just wanted you to know that I didn’t write this just to be _sad_ or _dark_ , I wrote this because I felt there were a lot of things Dan’s character deserved, an explanation being just one of them <3


	15. XV

**XV**

In the morning, Sunday, it was all wet and grey. Dan was asleep at Phil’s side and the curtains were still stripped back. Rain scuttled down the windows, bunched up in large droplets that blurred the shape of the dismal city. Phil watched it go for a while—admiring the way it ran and drummed like some sort-of harmony—and then let his eyes delve into Dan. He was facing him, lips wet and parted, eyes screwed shut and cheeks tinted red. Everything about him was so fucking gorgeous, and yet so tragic. Phil was just gone for him, so pathetically laying there staring at him like he was an _angel._

When he lifted his hand to touch him, he felt a spark of pain jolt up his wrist and he groaned instinctively under the pain. _Jesus, what the fuck had he done to his hand hitting that wall?_

Dan started moving at the audible sound and Phil sat upright, gripping his wrist with his other hand. It throbbed and ached under the skin and he gritted his teeth to prevent making too much noise.

“Phil?" Dan mewled, coming to his senses. Phil felt a hand on his back and his heart still managed to fucking _melt_ at the touch, regardless of the discomfort in his hand.

“Hey,” Phil titled his head at him, pictured with a fake smile. “Morning. Are you okay?”

“What happened to your hand?” Dan rubbed his eyes and moved to kneel beside Phil with a profound concern. He gently put his fingers against the sides of his hand and ran his thumb across the cuts.

“I—” Phil paused to sigh, defeatist. “I punched a wall yesterday.”

“Jesus, Phil,” Dan mumbled quickly, eyes flickering between Phil’s eyes and the gentle touch of his fingers. “Was it because of me?”

“Sorta, sorta not. I was just pissed off after your mom and hearing you say all that shit about your dad and—”

“We need to go to the hospital,” Dan carefully let go of Phil’s hand (the consideration in his actions was something Phil had grown so unfamiliar with) and shuffled off the edge of the bed. “Come on, I’ll search for one on my phone in the area.”

“Dan, it’s fine,” Phil told him. “I’m probably just overreacting, it doesn’t hurt that much.”

“You’ve been here for me,” Dan’s voice was weighted and eyes were placid when he looked back to Phil. “Let me be here for you, okay?”

Before Phil could even reply, Dan continued with, “Do you know where the charger is? My phone’s still dead.”

“Just,” Phil grabbed his from where it had fallen at the side of the bed. “Use mine.”

Dan took it with a smile and sat back down. “You’ve got seventeen missed calls, fucking hell. You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.”

“What?” Phil choked. “I—I don’t?”

“Calm down, darling,” Dan grinned. “I was kidding. Cat’s just been calling you loads.”

“Just Cat?” Phil forced his mind away from the sweet _darling_ Dan had definitely placed purposely into his sentence, at least judging by the taunting smile on his lips. It seemed that last night had taken a substantial weight from his chest. Understandably.

“A couple from Elise, but mostly Cat. What’s her problem, can she not go a day without you?” Dan read from the screen, smiling still.

“I don’t know, something might have come up,” Phil reached to take his phone back, seeing all the missed notifications. “I haven’t spoken to her since the night of her party. The last time I saw her was when I was going to walk you home, so she’s probably worried for me.”

“Clearly. Maybe you should call her.”

“Yeah,” Phil started tapping at his phone to find her contact.

“ _After_ I find a hospital,” Dan snatched the phone and Phil shot him a glare, watching as the smile returned to his lips. “It’s more important, Phil Lester. You might have a broken hand there.”

“I hope not,” Phil looked at his hand. “I don’t know what I’d tell Bernie and Elise.”

“That’s the first thing you think about?”

Phil rolled his eyes as Dan searched for a hospital.

“Seriously, that's a bit fucked up. You need to think about yourself.”

“Too busy thinking about you,” Phil muttered.

“It’s okay to think about me. Everybody thinks about me.”

“You wish.”

“They do,” Dan was smiling so much and it was so beautiful. “I’m just wonderful really, aren’t I? Absolute art.”

“Have you found a hospital yet?” Phil grumbled, and Dan laughed around a nod.

“There’s one ten miles away, we could get a taxi,” Dan gave Phil his phone back. “You got money, right?”

“Yeah. I’m spending all my savings on you, I hope you know.”

“If you weren’t here, I wouldn’t have to get a taxi,” Dan said. “Your own fault you punched a wall.”

“Your fault.”

“My fault?”

“Problematic little shit,” Phil joked with a light shove of Dan’s shoulder, and he chorused a laugh.

“I can’t deny that,” he settled his words and waited for a beat of silence, before, “Thanks for last night, Phil.”

Phil smiled. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You listened. That was enough. I think it was all I ever wanted from anyone, at least since I learned that nothing could be done it make it go away,” Dan paused. “So, thanks. Thanks a lot.”

“It’s no problem,” Phil murmured, equally as gentle.

They held a stare for about fifteen seconds, not moving or even breathing, until Dan said, “We should probably get going, then. The train back is at four this afternoon.”

“Okay," Phil slipped his legs out of the bedsheets. “I’ll call Cat on the ride down to the hospital.”

“Are you gonna tell her the truth? About being in Manchester with me?”

“Would that be okay?”

“It depends whether you tell her why we’re here or not.”

“I won’t. I wouldn’t. I promised never to tell and I don’t break promises.”

“Maybe it would just be easier to tell her the same thing as Bernie and Elise,” Dan shrugged. “Seems like the simplest option here."

“Yeah, okay then. Alright.”

And then they changed into fresh clothes, each taking separate turns in the bathroom, and Phil scrubbed his face and brushed his teeth with his working hand, although pulling a clean shirt on was difficult. They left the room around eleven and called for a cab, in which Phil paid. Everything felt so much easier between them; not weightless, but definitely lighter. It wasn’t obvious what had changed really, and there was no promise it would remain this way, but something was different. There was something there that Phil hadn’t noticed before—or maybe it had just never been there and now it was.

When they got into the cab and started off, Phil rang Cat from beside Dan. She answered instantly.

“Fucking hell, Phil, this better be good.”

“I’m in London with Dan. Why have you called me so much?”

“Bullshit are you in London,” Cat snapped down the receiver and it seemed Dan heard, as he glanced over to Phil with a firm frown. “Nobody gets a letter through the door at the time you guys got back from my party and you had no train tickets to get there. Plus, Dan would never go to a college tour with you.”

“He did. He’s here, right now. And—” Phil paused to consider the mock-honesty in his tone. “—he found the letter, like, a week ago but he just never showed it me. He wanted to go, it was his decision. He’d already printed the tickets off for us. You know how much he hates living back there and he just saw this as an opportunity to get away.”

“The college is open to you. Not him,” Cat sounded almost bored as she read through Phil's lies. He just wanted to hang up and hide away, but he couldn’t. They were going back at four after all, and he’d see her tomorrow.

“Yeah, but he’s got this idea that if I get in, he can come and live with me out here in London.”

“You’re gonna be moving to London?” Cat’s voice angled in surprise and unforeseen emotion.

“If I get in, yeah. I’ll have to.”

“And you’re letting him stay with you?”

“I—” Phil pinched the bridge of his nose. “I haven’t figured that bit out yet.”

“Right, okay. And how was this college? King’s College, yeah?”

“Yeah. It was, uh, it was different than I expected. Posher. I don’t know, I liked it though. Just not sure if I’d fit in there.”

“Have they said if you’re in yet?”

“No, they don’t know yet. I’ll find out soon.”

“Okay,” Cat’s voice was at a greater level of serenity than what it had been. “When are you back?”

“Tonight. Late though, the train’s at four.”

“Are you in school tomorrow?”

“Yeah, definitely. Sorry I haven’t called you back until now as well, I fell asleep last night after talking to my mom,” Phil excused himself with a painful guilt. He shook his head at his deception. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. See you, babe.”

“Bye, Cat.”

As Phil hung up the phone, Dan gave a sigh that sounded almost like a laugh. And when Phil looked at him, he was smiling. “You’re a good liar,” he nodded. “Pretty impressive, darling.”

“I hate lying,” Phil admitted, again ignoring the sweet word. “Makes me feel like a bad person and stuff.”

“You’re not a bad person. Nobody thinks that. I’m a bad person for asking you to lie to your friend. Did she buy it, though?”

Phil nodded. “I’m pretty sure. She’s smart though, Cat.”

“You seemed to have got her covered there.”

“I’m sorry for blaming it all on you, it was the only excuse I could come with for having you with me.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Dan gestured to Phil’s hand. “What are you gonna say about that when they ask? It’ll have to be bandaged up, no doubt.”

“I’ll think of something,” Phil dismissed. “Do you need to, like, call Abi? Will she be worried?”

Dan shook his head. “She’s probably still hungover. Plus, she just uses me. I’m there when she wants me to be and, obviously, she doesn’t right now.”

“She uses you?” Phil turned to peer at Dan. He didn’t want to be so resentful towards Dan’s _girlfriend_ , for God’s sake, but he didn’t sound too fond of her himself. There’d been a time—when they were kids—that she was _helplessly_ in awe of him, crushing on him like he was ever her’s to crush on.

“Not exactly _uses_ me, just chooses the times she wants me and she doesn’t. There are days when we never even touch because we’d just rather not but there are also days when we touch a lot. Our characters, I suppose, aren’t compatible enough for constant attachment. I’m no better though, so don’t go thinking she’s a bitch or whatever.”

“I still think she’s a bitch.”

Dan’s eyes creased in a soft laugh. “Yeah, I figured. You don’t like her or Tanner, do you?”

“They’re complete _twats_ , Dan. I’d hate _you_ if you weren’t Dan Howell.”

His lips twitched. “You mean, if you didn’t know me in the way you do. If you hadn’t connected with me the way you did when we were kids.”

“Yeah, something like that,” Phil shrugged. “You are . . . dating Abi though, yeah?”

“Why?"

“Just—” _Fuck_. “Just wondering.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I am," Dan confirmed, and his eyes danced across to the rain drizzling down the window. “I love her a bit.”

Phil’s heart twisted. He didn’t want to know why. His voice was squeezed under control when he asked, “You do?”

Dan nodded, once. “I do.”

“That's nice. Like, it’s nice that you have that with her. And so young, too.”

“Yeah, it is nice,” Dan continued to stare out of the glass. There was a distance to his voice that correlated with his eyes. “She’s lovely when she wants to be. I guess you could say that about me, too.”

Phil managed a smile. “I can’t say I’m a fan of the lot of you, but I hope everything works out. Does she know about you and . . . ?”

“My mess?” Dan turned his head to smile. Melancholic. “No way, I haven’t even thought about telling her. I’m just not ready yet. I don’t think she could even process all that.”

“You're worried about, like, scaring her off?”

“No,” Dan said, rushed and frantic. “I mean, maybe. Probably. Getting sexually abused by your father isn’t really something you want a popular girl like Abi to have in her head. And Tanner would definitely find out because she’d tell him and he’d, like, call me _gay_ or whatever.”

“He calls you that?” Phil snapped. “He’s mean to you?”

“He's not _mean_ to me, Phil,” Dan’s laugh was patently artificial. “It’s just banter. You know. He’s my best mate. You and Chris have banter, right?”

“He doesn’t call me gay, if that’s what you’re getting at. I thought you—” Phil didn't want to talk about this. “I thought you hated that.”

“Hated, what?”

Phil’s heart was hurrying between beats as he shook his head, dismissing, “It doesn’t matter. Besides, Chris isn’t my best friend.”

“Cat is?”

 _You’re an idiot_. “No, I don’t . . . have one.”

“Well, okay,” Dan sighed. “Hey, I think the hospital’s just here.”

Phil peeked around the driver as they pulled into the parking lot of Manchester’s sizeable, refurbished hospital. They stopped in the taxi area just outside the entrance of the main hospital and Phil paid the driver, asking him where the Accident and Emergency department was located. He pointed him in the correct direction and the boys got out of the car.

“It’s just up here,” Phil told Dan as they trekked through the rain around the expansive hospital. The weather was atrocious; the wind was frantic and the sky a horrible grey.

“Fucking England,” Dan cursed, holding his hands over his head to protect himself from the heavy rain. “I can’t see a bloody—Phil, God, come here—”

Water gushed down over them as Dan reached forward and wrapped a cold hand around Phil’s upper-arm, shuffling closer to him so they moved together. The sky crackled and crumbled in all the places it hadn’t yet and its pieces clattered down onto their heads. Dan didn’t have a hud, didn’t even have a jacket, and there was no time for Phil to stop and take his off. So they just stayed there, rushing through the rain and the wind and the gloom, with Dan’s hand on Phil’s arm.

When Phil squinted his blurry vision upwards, he found they were entering the correct department. He pushed Dan inside before himself and they stopped at the entrance with uncomfortable mumbles, shaking the rain as best they could from themselves. Dan’s teeth chattered as he stood there in a long-sleeved shirt, hugging his skin with a frosted layer.

“Hey,” Phil shook, shivers fluttering up his spine. He brushed his hand up Dan’s face, thumb against his cheek and breathed, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” His eyes were wild but it didn’t reflect in his voice. “Fucking cold though.”

“You’re gonna get sick,” Phil removed his jacket and shook the water from it, handing it to Dan. “Wrap it around yourself or something while we wait. It’ll keep you warm.”

“No, it’s—” Dan pushed it away with cold fingers. “It’s okay, darling, put it back on.”

“No, you put it on. And stop calling me that.”

Dan’s pale lips upturned, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t take the jacket either, so Phil opened it up and draped it across his shoulders, pulling it down towards his throat.

Dan sighed. “Phil—”

“Shut up,” Phil whispered, so fond and so fragile. He brushed a wet, ringed lock of hair from Dan’s face with the hand that wasn’t still clinging onto the jacket (the possibly broken one, moving slowly) and caught Dan’s brown eyes struggling against stilling on his lips. It was impossible to describe how gorgeous he looked, with water on his skin and breath puffing fast. His beauty was striking and it wasn’t like you had to be up close to see, but it was all just so much more stunning from where Phil was standing.

Dan closed his eyes as Phil played with his loose curls. He never wanted to move, never ever. But the automatic doors inconveniently opened at their sides for an elderly couple to wander in, and Phil was away from Dan before they had the chance to say a word. Dan coughed and ruffled up his hair that Phil had tucked away behind his ear, playing with the jacket on his shoulders.

“Let’s go to the reception,” Phil mumbled, and it meant nothing but an excuse to get from whatever _just_ happened. They headed past the multiple rows of seats in the waiting area to the front desk and Phil gave the woman a composed smile, which she formally returned.

“Hello, love,” she greeted. “Who have we got?”

“Phil Teller,” It was rather comforting how Dan and Phil referred to one another with the surnames they’d had when they met, but it was difficult to remember not to do so when speaking to other people. Phil was sure not even Chris and Cat knew his _actual_ name. Actual. It was all very confusing, adoption. Perplexing.

“And what’s the problem?” The woman asked.

“I, eh, I think I might have broken my hand,” Phil held up his tender hand and the woman winced.

“It certainly doesn’t look too good. Take a seat, love, it shouldn’t be too long of a wait.”

So they sat together on a row two from the front and Dan kept Phil’s jacket on his shoulders, fingers fiddling with the loose zipper. It was all very silent between them. Still, lifeless. 

“Do you ever notice how much people pretend?” Dan finally spoke. His voice pried open the air with weak fingers.

“What?”

“People are always pretending, all the time. Do you ever notice it? Like, that old couple that walked in pretended not to see you so close to me and all these people are pretending to not care about how long they’re having to wait and you and I are pretending that last night never happened.”

“We’re not,” Phil was whispering. “We’ve spoken about it.”

“Yeah, but hardly.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, no. I was just thinking about it. It’s weird, don’t you think? Everybody pretends so much and I’m just wondering what it would be like if they didn’t.”

“Maybe because it’s easier to pretend,” Phil offered a piece of his mind to the boy’s busy head, wondering if he’d swap it for one of his own.

“How do you mean?”

“It’s just easier to pretend. It’s a way to forget that something ever happened and people like doing it because there are a lot of things they like to believe haven’t happened, or aren’t happening. Some things are just inconvenient and I suppose people would like to imagine they live in a world without them,” Phil sensed the shift in Dan demeanour, and decided to respectfully offer something along the lines of, “We haven’t eaten yet today.”

Dan glanced up on a pause, as if settling into the new ground. “No, we haven’t.”

“You didn’t eat last night before bed either. There’s some money in my jacket pocket, you can go get something from the vending machine if you want. You must be starving.”

“I’d have made a point of finding something to eat if I was starving,” Dan said. “I’m not taking any more of your money, stop offering me shit. That’s your savings.”

“Dan, it’s _food_. Jesus, I don’t care. Go buy yourself something,” Phil gestured to the vending machine in the corner of the waiting room. A little boy was stood there. “Please, you need to eat.”

“We can just grab something at the train station to eat on the ride back. I’m really not hungry right now.”

Phil rubbed the sides of his head. “Yeah, okay. If you want.”

“I want,” Dan lingered on the words.

“Then you shall get.”

“It’s probably not good to give people what they want. You’re too kind, darling.”

“Dan, my God, _stop_ ,” Phil hated the way his insides reacted to the word. 

“Stop, what?”

“You _know_ what. Stop calling me that.”

“Why? It’s rather amusing to see the way you, like, stiffen up when I say it—It doesn’t make you uncomfortable, does it? Because I don’t want _that_ —”

“No, no. It doesn’t. It’s just . . . ” Phil tapped his foot against the hospital floor. “I’m not used to it.”

“Do you like it?”

“Sorry?”

“Do you like the name?” Dan smiled. “I think it's cute. Suits you, honestly. I like the word, I’m quite fond of it, and I want to give it to someone but I don’t know who else I could give it to.”

“Abi?” Phil suggested, quiet and swiftly regretful. He didn’t mean it. He loved the stupid fucking name.

“Doesn’t fit her at all. Not in the way it fits you,” Dan’s sentences were interrupted as Phil’s name was called by a nurse before a door, and they both stood up in synchronisation.

It was difficult explaining to a doctor that you’d _punched a wall_ (it was a positive thing he didn't ask why) and cut all your hand, not because it was hard to explain but, rather, just because it was _humiliating_. Phil was examined briefly, then told to wait for an X-Ray. That in itself took an hour and a half, then he had to get his wrist done up in a sort-of cast-thing after he found he’d sprained it. It was fortunate that it was his left hand because he was right-handed and he needed it to write and draw and, overall, just attend school.

When they got out of the hospital, it was a while past two. They caught a cab back to the hotel to collect their backpacks and check-out, then another cab down to the train station. They just about had enough time to stop for a burger and eat it in the little restaurant before they had to catch their train. On time, it came, and they found a seat together in a similar position they’d been on the journey down. Dan against the window, Phil opposite.

Everything was the same, yet it couldn’t have felt more different.

“Do you think it was a success, then?” Phil inquried, intrigued on the boy’s opinion.

“The trip? I mean, yeah, in moderation. I feel like things are better for me in some sense, after seeing my mom and finally telling you what happened. But you sprained your wrist and I cried quite a lot and we spent too many hours in hospital.”

“It wasn’t too bad, I don’t think,” Phil gave a lop-sided smile. He was drawing again, back to working on that same sketch. The same, but not. “It could’ve been better and it could’ve been worse. I’m so, so glad you found it in you to tell me. You know, after visiting your mother, you really didn't have to tell me anything else. I’d pieced it all together. Finally. But you wanted to and you did and that's a definite improvement.”

“If you look at it that way, then yes. It’s been somewhat of a success,” Dan paused and Phil knew, without even peeking up from his paper, that he was looking at him. “It’s also been a success in the department of our friendship.”

“Oh, yeah? How so?”

“We rekindled the flame. Honestly, all we needed was a couple fucked-up stories from my past.”

“No, all we needed was your honesty,” Phil smiled. “And bravery. And everything else.”

Dan calmed amongst still waters of silence. It took an abundance of time for him to conclude watching Phil draw and just ask what he _obviously_ wanted to ask, but when he did, it was as patient and mild as expected.

“Can I sit over there?”

Phil nodded his head and closed his art-pad, setting it aside as Dan moved across and sat right next to him. Their legs brushed with each inch they subtly grew closer, before Dan touched into Phil’s side and Phil’s arm snuck around his scraggly hips. We rekindled the flame. Dan rested his head against Phil’s shoulder and they probably looked so pathetic, so poignant, what with the time and effort it demanded, but it was _so much_ for them. A single brush of fingertips was like a fireworks display through the dead of early November and so sitting in a hug was something with nothing as strong in the world to compare it to.

“You didn’t eat enough at the restaurant,” Phil softly accused, right down into Dan’s ear. He felt so thin, leaning into him.

“I ate as much as I wanted,” Dan’s voice was like velvet. Smooth under Phil’s attention.

“But it wasn’t enough.”

“It was for me,” Dan turned and pressed his face against Phil’s chest and it felt like _shut up talking_. So he did. And they sat there with their hearts using little pickaxes on their ribcages and little torches through the darkness of the unknown. They were trying to reach each other, trying so hard.

It was impossible to tell that they’d already reached where they were intending to go.

“Don’t fall in love with me, Phil,” Dan muttered into his shirt, as Phil’s fingers brushed patterns over his back. “I know it sounds so fucking stupid, just please don’t. You don’t want that. You don’t want me, darling. Just be content with this and don’t pretend it could ever be more. I hate pretending.”

So Phil didn’t pretend. He didn’t pretend at all. In fact, he’d very much _given up_ pretending when it came to being in love with Dan.

But, regardless of what was happening in their chests, they told themselves—once more—that they were not in love. That Dan didn’t feel anything when Phil dragged his fingers down his back, even though it eventually threaded him into sleep there on his chest. And Phil didn’t feel anything when he looked down at him sleeping, hand on his stomach and legs stretched out on the seat. They told themselves there was nothing when Dan jerked in his slumber and Phil whispered, “It’s okay, lovely,” like this boy was fucking _everything._

He was, in hindsight. Phil’s mind was choking with a familiar confusion.

And they’d waited so long for it, to allow themselves so close to one another again. It didn’t really have to mean anything.

It just sort-of felt like coming home.

><

They arrived back getting onto nine that evening and it was still raining, even there in Scotland. The street was dark and crepuscular through the floods of rain when they clattered off the bus and up the path.

“Phil, your hand,” Dan noted, as they stopped on the front step. “What are we gonna say to them?”

“Okay, uh, I—I fell going to the bathroom in the night,” Phil quickly excused. “It was dark and I couldn’t see anything, and I tripped and fell on it funny. I struggled to sleep through the night and then we went to the hospital in the morning, which is why I didn’t call Elise back. I sprained my wrist in two places. What did I do?”

Dan gave a sleepy smile. “You tripped getting up in the night and sprained your wrist in two places.”

“That’s it,” Phil squeezed his shoulder fondly. He wondered if the house noticed the change. “You ready?"

“Yeah, yeah. If you are.”

Phil rang the bell and drummed his foot against the concrete step, nervous. He didn’t know why he was, they’d most definitely believe him. Maybe it was just the fact of lying to his parents that he didn’t like. It felt wrong, immoral.

But he had little time to ponder that before the door was opened, hinges cracking _violently_ , and Elise emerged into view. She started saying something frantic, something or other, though quickly surrendered to throw her arms around Phil’s neck. Dan shuffled back, Phil saw out of the corner of his eye, moving out the way.

“I thought you’d never get home,” she squeezed Phil tightly and mumbled into his shoulder. “Don’t you ever get doing that to me again, I was worried sick.”

“Sorry, mom,” Phil apologised softly, and briefly turned to Dan when she let him go. He was looking at the floor and chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Bernie and Elise had . . . a favourite. They always had done and they always _would_ and Phil wasn’t _supposed_ to hate the fact that it was him.

“Good Lord—” Elise took Phil's hand. “What on earth happened to you?”

“I tripped getting up in the night,” Phil mocked an eye roll for effect. “It was really stupid, mom, you wouldn’t believe I did it. I tripped right over my bag trying to go to the bathroom and fell on my hand awkwardly. I’ve sprained my wrist in two places.”

“Sprained your wrist?” Elise gasped. “Is it all bandaged up okay now?”

“Yeah, I think,” Phil turned his wrist.

“Come on, come and show your dad that. He’s hated you being so far away,” Elise hooked her arm with Phil’s. For a moment, Phil thought she was going to shut the door on Dan’s face. Instead, she left it open for him to wander in alone, and took Phil through into the kitchen.

His heart was aching in an anguish at his distance from Dan. Elise’s behaviour towards him—like he wasn’t existing at Phil’s side—was such a horrible thing.

Bernie hugged Phil when he entered the kitchen, quick but firm like he was accustomed to.

“I’m so glad you’re back, lad," he smiled, hands on his shoulders. “It’s been just awful knowing you aren’t under the roof with us. I don’t know what we’ll be like when you’ve moved out.”

“Look what he's gone and done to his wrist, Bernie,” Elise gestured to Phil’s supported bone.

“My God, son, is that a break?”

Phil shook his head. “No, a sprain. I tripped and fell funny. It shouldn’t be long before it starts to at least feel better though.”

“Well, look on the bright side. It’s your left hand,” Bernie smiled, then turned to walk over to the stove. “Elise was just making a late supper for us. Are you hungry?”

“No, thanks, I ate at the train station,” Phil declined and shrugged off his bag.

“How was the college, then?” Elise asked him, sweet. “As good as you’d hoped?”

“It was amazing, yeah. Everything was so . . . ” Phil searched for the right word, silence puncturing his ears.

“Opulent," Dan spoke, upon entering the room. Phil’s lips turned just slightly at the sound of his voice. “Everything was so opulent.”

Bernie glanced to Dan, frowned deeply, then looked away to address Phil again. “Did they say anything about your entrance exam?”

“They said they’d be getting to me soon,” Phil shrugged. “I have no idea if it’s good news or not. I hope so.”

“And, London?” Elise was still smiling. “Was it great?”

Phil wondered if she even remembered both he and Dan had lived there. Once. One million moons ago.

“It was brilliant,” Phil picked up his bag in his arms and started off towards the door. “I’m pretty tired anyway, and there’s school tomorrow. I want to rest up.”

“Okay, lad,” Bernie smiled, sitting down at the table. “Great to have you home. Sleep well.”

As Phil exited the kitchen, he heard Bernie’s stern, “I hope you don’t think we believe you went with him, Dan.”

Phil halted in the hallway.

“What are you talking about?” Dan’s voice was hellish on the attention. He sounded exhausted, like his mind was a mountain. “I went.”

“Why is he covering for you? What have you said to him?” Elise’s voice was a demand. A startling one, admittedly.

“Who, Phil? I haven’t said shit, Jesus.”

“Daniel,” Bernie barked. “Watch your language.”

“I went with him. I went with him up to London.”

“Why?”

“Because I might want to move out to London with him if he gets in,” Dan took the lie Phil had used on Cat and expanded it, pulled on its edges like it was elastic.

“You won’t be doing that. He wouldn’t have that.”

“He seems pretty okay with it to me.”

“He doesn’t even _like_ you,” Bernie’s laugh tasted cruel as it soaked into the air. Phil winced and rubbed his hand over his face.

“Yeah, okay. Whatever, this isn’t about you two. It's between Phil and I. It’s where he wants to go to college and where I want to live. End of story. Good-fucking-night.”

There was a clatter as Dan came out of the kitchen, bag jolting on his back as he headed down the hallway in an angry stride. He stopped near Phil at the end and gritted his teeth, fisting his shirt and pulling him up the stairs.

“They fucking hate me, Phil,” Dan said from before him, moving him with a strained hold on his shirt. “They don’t know shit about either of us.”

“Nobody knows shit about either of us, not after this weekend,” Phil responded.

“Don’t fucking stand up for them, Phil,” Dan almost yelled, and released Phil’s shirt. “They treat me like I’m a piece of useless _shit_ because I failed at replacing their dead, goddamn twins.”

“Dan, Jesus. Don’t say that,” They lurched through into their bedroom and Phil gently shut the door on Dan’s rough entrance. A strong contrast. He threw his bag onto the bed and it creaked at the force.

“Don’t say, _what_?” Dan growled back. This boy was not the one that had fallen asleep next to Phil in the hotel room and on the train. “They hate my _guts_ because I’m not perfect like you. I could never—”

“I’m not perfect, Dan,” Phil tried. He was still standing before the door.

“Are you _trying_ to piss me off?” The rage was just awful on Dan’s gorgeous, gorgeous face.

“Why would I try and piss you off? What the hell did I say?”

“Saying you’re not perfect and all that bullshit. Of course you fucking are, you’re standing next to me,” Dan laughed, bittersweet. “Remember where we were this weekend? Where we actually were? Remember all the shit that happened? How much chaos was dragged up from my past that nobody here but you even know _exists_?”

Phil swallowed back the affliction. “Dan.”

“What? _What_ , Phil?”

“Stop comparing yourself to me, I never went through what you did. It’s different.”

“I’m trying to prove to you why they hate me and love you because you don’t see it, you don’t see it at all!” Dan thrashed his backpack off the bed and it hit the floor with a thud.

“Dan, bloody hell! Stop it!” Phil’s shout was shadowed behind a forceful whisper. It was controlled, but frantic nevertheless. He didn’t want to do this, not when Bernie and Elise were just downstairs. Dan, on the other hand, he didn’t seem to care. He was slamming down their pent-up anger for one another—constructed by years of silence and hidden behind soft touches—with determination.

“Stop, what?” Dan seethed. “Calling you out?”

“Stop doing this! Stop messing everything up, stop—”

“Stop messing everything up?” Dan’s voice cracked. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You keep ruining shit, you keep twisting it and—”

“Well, I’m _so_ fucking sorry for my reckless behaviour,” It was as though Phil’s words had cut through a cord of Dan’s anger, deflating him. “I’m so fucking sorry that I keep ‘ruining shit’. And what do you mean by that then, Phil? What have I ruined? Your sweet life here with your obsessive parents? Your nonchalance? Your easy life?”

“I just don’t know why you’re screaming at me because I said I wasn’t perfect, you’re being stupid, you’re being dramatic—”

“How the _fuck_ am I being dramatic?” Dan tested at the ends of his hair and his fraught eyes would not still. “They’re down there offering you food and crying about your wrist and _loving_ you and they don’t give me shit!”

“That doesn’t mean I’m perfect!”

“It means you’re perfect in their eyes, you dumb fucking kid,” Dan pushed his hands against Phil’s chest when he crossed into his vicinity.

“Don’t call me a kid, I’m older than you,” Phil shoved him back. “You’re making it such a big deal, you never cared before when they hated you because you were so rude to them—”

“Oh my God, did you get _nothing_ from this weekend?” Dan’s eyes were spoke of his dull pain as he pushed Phil again. Back and forth and right back again. “I told you why I’m like this, I told you why I act so hostile towards everything and—And I laid all my goddamn insecurities out for you and yet you stand there and call me dramatic when I get back to two people fussing over a guy who never suffered half of what I did—”

“You never cared before,” Phil’s chest tightened around irritation.

“I care because you know now and let you’re still letting it happen! You stood there and let them treat me like I was nothing and accuse you of not liking me—You didn’t even come back in to correct them! You just fucked off after you’d gotten your share of love for the evening that you obviously missed _so_ much!”

“Would you just—”

“Why don’t you tell me what that feels like?” Dan spat. The situation had spoiled blemishes across his facade of simplicity. “Why don’t you tell me what it feels like to have two parents that love you?”

“They love you, Dan! They just don’t like you because of the way you act towards them! Jesus, how the hell do you not see that _you’re_ the problem in all of this?”

The moment the words thudded into the air, flitting back and then going in again with a penetrating force, Phil regretted them. They were like spilled milk and he was scrambling to clean it up before somebody came to find where that noise came from. Dan moved back like he’d been wounded and shook his head desperately, like he was in complete rejection to the words. 

Like _no, no, you didn’t just say that to me._

“I told you everything about what happened, what—” Dan choked on a whimper that he was failed in concealing back down his throat. “What he did to me a-and what she let him do! I told you it all and I let you hold me because I was so fucking scared of admitting it aloud and—”

“I didn’t mean that, Dan, I’m sorry—I know what happened, I was just—I’m angry and not thinking about what shit means,” Phil took a cautious step and Dan staggered back on the bed, scrambling on his sheets to get away.

“Fuck off,” Dan’s anger crumbled under his sadness and he put a hand to his mouth as he fought back a sob. “Don’t ever fucking touch me again, I _hate_ you.”

“No, you don’t,” Phil whispered. _Why did he think that was okay to say to a boy like Dan?_ After everything, after such a salient weekend, he’d still managed to fail. “You’re just angry, come here.”

Phil dropped his bag and opened his arms.

“N-No,” Dan balled his sheets and allowed his inflicted pain to attack his somewhat composed face. He was crying because of _Phil_ and, _fuck_ , that hurt.

“I wasn’t thinking, Dan, please. You aren’t the problem in any of this—”

“You’re lying,” Dan croaked.

“No, I’m not,” Phil promised. “I promise you, I’m not. I was lying before, I was angry and spurring shit I didn’t mean. You aren’t the problem with that mess in your past and you aren’t the problem with Bernie and Elise, okay, all of it just comes down to your parents—”

“You think it’s m-me—It is fucking me, isn’t it? It’s me, oh my God, it’s _me_ —” Dan curled up in a ball like he was so fucking desperate for the comfort Phil wasn’t giving him, the comfort it was becoming apparent only Phil could. 

“Dan,” Phil cautiously sat down on the bed. His heart hurt and he was so, so sorry. “Dan, just come here, let me help you—”

“You did this,” Dan spat into his pillow, words divided with sobs and whimpers and tortured whines. A little devil came and told Phil he’d hurt Dan, told him he had the power to cut deeper than most.

“I’m sorry,” Phil laid down beside Dan with reluctance, hugging his arms around his rigid body.

“Get the fuck o-off me—” he clawed at Phil’s grip. “Just go away, d-don’t touch me, I don’t want you anymore—”

“No, lovely, calm down,” Phil fought against the boy’s thrashing, squeezing tight on his wrists and holding them above his head. The pain that stemmed from seeing Dan cry was like a dagger under the heart, then a shift of it upwards to slice through the organ. There was blood everywhere, all over their hands and the sheets as Phil leant down and brushed their noses together, Dan’s breath catching and eyes fluttering.

He considered all the blood they’d lost in the course of two days.

“G-Get off me, I want you _off_ me—”

“You don’t mean that,” Phil whispered, hands still tight around Dan’s wrists. “You don’t want me to get off—”

“I do,” Dan’s words came weak behind closed eyes and damp cheeks and _this is so wrong that I want you here._

“No, you don’t,” Phil inched his face back and it took no little or no more than a moment to realise he was _leaving_ for Dan to hook his arms around his neck, pulling him back down and whimpering, “No, Phil, p-please stay. I’m sorry, I want you to stay.”

“It’s my fault,” Phil brushed their noses again, breathing air onto his lips. “Don’t you dare say sorry when it’s _my_ fault. I made you hurt.”

Dan pulled his arms tight around Phil’s neck and shifted him so he was laying at his side. Not once did he let go, not once did he allow anything to come between pushing his face into Phil’s neck and balling the front of his shirt. Not once did he allow anything to come between Dan Howell and Phil Lester and there was a tinge of beauty in the heartbreak.

“I-I need you so much, Phil,” he cried. “I need you here with me, all the time, or I’ll fucking d-die or—You can’t leave me, you can’t ever leave me,” Dan’s fingers itched up the back of Phil’s neck to drag through his hair and loosely tugged him down closer. And Phil fucking adored this boy, even if he didn’t say it. Even if he didn’t think it or realise it. He adored him.

“Why do you want me after I hurt you like that?” Phil rubbed his thumb over the tears hidden away under Dan’s tired eyes.

“Because you can hurt me really fucking bad—” Dan paused to catch his wayward breath. “But you’re the only one that can make that pa-pain go away again.”

“I didn’t mean it, I swear I didn’t,” Phil touched his nose into Dan’s cheek and thought _what’s happened to us?_ “Nothing here is on you and I’ll never, ever use what you told me in confidence as an attack on you ever again.”

Dan’s lip quivered as he continued to cry softly, burying his face again so that Phil could rest his head on his shoulder. It was all so simple laying there, even though everything hurt. Painless. Reaching out to one another had been the instinctive reaction since the day they’d met, regardless of how it had just been the _thing_ to ignore.

Dan’s fingers slowly peeled at the shoulders of Phil’s jacket, pulling on the fabric weakly. He mewled, “take it off,” into his neck. Then, “want to be closer,” right after. Phil unhooked his arms from Dan and shrugged the jacket off to the floor before scrambling to find his place back against Dan’s chest.

“God,” Dan breathed, eyes red and sore from his sudden rush of tears. “Your hugs are the same. They’re the same, Phil, the same as they used to be.”

Phil touched his unbruised knuckles against Dan’s cheek as he said, “You used to say they were the best.”

“They are, they still are,” Dan leaned against the hand on his face. He was so desperate for contact and everything about that was just heavenly. “I’m sorry I pushed you away. I want you here. You’re the only one I want here, I can’t have you doubting that.”

“I don’t, but I was wrong to say what I said,” Phil told him. “You reacted the right way. I was wrong to force you to be like this right after with me—I was wrong in all of it.”

“Okay,” Dan’s response said he didn’t want to argue on this matter anymore, and so did the way he lay his head against Phil and shut his eyes.

“Am I—” Phil didn’t want to move. “Do you want me to sleep here tonight? Is that okay?”

“You don’t have to. There’s more of a chance Bernie and Elise will see us,” Dan held his breath for a second, like the thought _pained_ him. Maybe it was just being torn away from Phil that pained him. 

“I asked if _you_ wanted me to,” Phil grazed his fingertips through Dan’s hair, edges still damp from the earlier rain.

“I want you to,” Dan mumbled, and it was as though he was in another universe. He held his breath again then released it with an adorning, “ _Phil_.”

Phil’s ribs tightened around his heart at the tone of voice. “Yeah?”

“I love it when you do that,” he sounded so beautiful, so surprisingly calm despite his voice still being choked with tears.

“Do what, lovely?”

“Run your hands through my hair,” Dan aimlessly gestured to Phil’s fingers threading through his curls. “Love it so much, feels so nice.”

 _God, he was just like that precious boy at the orphanage._ The same little boy, except he was laying there in Phil’s arms with his tired heart on his sleeve. He was so fucking adorable, and handsome and funny and intelligent and nobody could have him, Phil decided.

Nobody could have him because he belonged right where he was.

“I want to lay here with you forever,” Dan continued to talk under the influence of intense comfort.

“You can,” Phil whispered.

“I can’t. I’m not allowed to. Somebody would see and think—” he shook his head like he wanted to be rid of the possibility. “Maybe, in some other place, I could.”

“How’d you mean? Where?”

“In some other universe,” Dan’s words came muffled into Phil’s neck. “Like, in this universe when we have to get up, we don’t in another. We just continue laying here and nobody comes to find us. The universe is just this room and it’s just ours.”

“So there’s nothing behind the door, then?”

Dan lightly shook his head. “N-No, nothing. It ends there and begins there. It’s just our universe.”

“That would be lovely,” Phil whispered, coming to an understanding that the gentle movements of his fingers against Dan’s head were sending him into sleep. “And we’d lay here forever in that universe, yeah?”

“Yeah. Just us. Always just us. And nothing would hurt there, in that universe.”

“Does it hurt here?”

Dan nodded sleepily. “Everything, darling. Everything hurts here.”

“I wish I could take you to our universe, where we belong. I’d take you right now if I could, on a little spaceship with only two seats,” Phil mumbled, and Dan’s chest rose in an emotional laugh. He’d take him on the same spaceship that he crash-landed in when they met, obliterating everything else in Phil’s life. He’d repair it and take them away to _their_ universe. Theirs.

“I’d go with you,” Dan tilted his head up from the crook of Phil’s neck, and the ends of their noses rubbed slightly. “You’d take me, wouldn’t you?”

“Hhm?” Phil hummed, questioning as he admired the stars between the moisture in Dan’s eyes. “Of course I’d take you.”

“Yeah, of course,” Dan settled back down, and Phil traced a circle over his lower back. “I think I’ll go one day, Phil. I’ll go . . . without you and wait for you to join me.”

Phil didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t know whether it was another he didn’t want to. “Okay,” he whispered anyway. “But remember to send the ship back to get me.”

“I will,” Dan smiled drowsily against the pillow, expressions sewn with a drag of sleep.

There came a silence that consisted of nothing but the sound of two chests moving—up and down and up and down—and the picture was of arms around waists and fluttering eyelashes against damp cheeks. Fingers loose around fabric and hair messy from a thousand faint touches.

“Do you still believe in God?” Dan murmured into Phil’s ear. Phil was thinking about the way he could feel the bones in Dan’s back pushing up against his hand.

He didn’t know why this question had anchored Dan’s mind over the weekend. He’d asked it on Friday and he was asking it again. And the truth was simple, the truth was just that Phil didn’t _know._ He didn’t know if he was ever _going_ to know, if anybody ever really could, and it was so easy to say _I believe_ but it wasn’t easy to say it and not think _why don’t you?_ Because believing in God was like believing in parallel universes, where sad boys drove spaceships and laid to wait for the company of the people who smashed them up but never forgot how to put them back together again. Believing in God was like believing that was okay, believing that any of that was real. And, no, Phil didn’t know the truth behind any of it, but he knew that the priest was just as clueless as the atheist. 

“I still don’t know,” he said. “Why? Why do you keep asking?”

“Because everybody fucking does. Everybody, Phil, everybody always fucking believes in him when they need him and I keep thinking that if I do then maybe things will start to feel better,” Dan’s substantial voice floated up from where he lay beside Phil. Where it lingered, scratching at the air. “Maybe he’ll look after me like he apparently looks after everyone else. But the world stills works the same, even if you believe and I think believing is just the same as changing the way you perceive everything. And I want to feel okay but I don’t want to have to fight for it, you know? I don’t want to fight for somebody that’s never been there for me, that’s just going to make it so that I see something fucking awful and think, “Hey, that isn’t so bad.” It is bad. It will always be bad. The world will never be what I want it to be and I guess maybe I don’t want to fight to forget that.”

It was patent that Dan’s faith had been kicked and beaten and moulded into something that just mocked all religion was supposed to be. But maybe it was okay for him to think like this because, to him, this was the truth. This was what religion was, what it had always been. Dan’s life was a chaotic sequence of mistake after mistake after mistake and it played out like a sum, like mistake plus mistake equals _fuck you, God._

And it was tough to lay it out like that and understand it. But Phil understood him, Phil understood him because he opened his mind to Dan and he looked at it from where he was standing. He didn’t think _he’d_ feel any different about God if all that had happened to Dan had happened to him.

“I want to sleep now, Phil,” Dan was speaking again, not quickly but quick enough.

“Sleep then, lovely,” Phil curled into him. “Rest up for school tomorrow.”

Dan shut his eyes with a yawn and neither of them cared enough to get up and switch off the main light. Phil had the strangest of thoughts then, really he did.

It was a little something about a painter and two boys, and the word _stay_ smudged in the corner of a canvas.

Phil didn’t mind. Stay, he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments on the last chapter. They make me so, so happy. Make my day every time, honestly. It’s very important to me to know this fic is influencing a lot of you <3
> 
> (There won’t be an update tomorrow because I’m very busy, and for this reason I made the last two chapters longer for you. Thank you all again.)


	16. XVI

**XVI**

Dan didn’t look at Phil in the morning.

It was so odd, so bemusing. His eyes failed to rest in the area of the atmosphere Phil stood. Phil tried a glance, a peek through the confusion, but Dan didn’t acknowledge. Chose not to.

Phil thought maybe he’d been thinking about what happened the night before—how he’d been so malignant—and he was just developing another spate of fury.

Phil walked to school by himself, as he always did, and met Chris and Cat in their usual place at Chris’ locker. Everything was so normal under Phil’s attention, lingering in a state of regularity. Like the weekend hadn’t even happened; like Dan and Phil were back to being Dan and Phil, except the Dan and Phil everybody knew, not the ones curled up together in the darkness of separate universes.

They’d found their masks again and they were distorting their perceptions of reality.

“Well, look who it is,” Chris smiled on Phil’s approach, before his eyes instinctively darted to his bandaged hand and the expression disintegrated like scatters of light on his face. “Fuck me, what’s happened there?”

“Is it broken? Did you actually go and break your bloody hand?” Cat lifted it up with concerned and sympathetic eyes. Phil figured he’d have to learn to grasp this reaction.

“No,” he said. “Just a sprain. And it’s my wrist. I tripped in the night going to the bathroom and fell funny.”

“You know, I bet you’re just covering for him. Did you have a fight or something? Hit him too hard?” Chris’ words sounded like a joke.

Phil frowned at him. “Dan?”

“It’s so weird you just setting off with him like that, mate.”

Phil was too tired for this today. There were traces of a migraine in the soft pulses beneath his skull. “Why is it weird? He might want to live up there, knew I was going, asked if he could come, I said yes.”

“Whatever you say,” Chris puffed a sigh. “Did you have to sit with that ass on the train?”

“No, Chris, we caught different trains,” Phil didn’t intend for harshness to charm such bleak sarcasm. It was just—People slandering Dan was really going to start to piss him off. He wasn’t that narcissistic, popular kid who craved the light of attention. Who liked girls whispering his name in the hallways and boys treating him like a fucking God. He was Dan. He was Phil’s Dan. That same boy who’d been abused by his father and failed by his mother and grown up around kids who’d taught him it was better to be one of the worst than it was to take the hits as the best. The same boy who’d cried too much and who spoke about parallel universes and God when he was drunk or tired.

“Alright, Phil,” Cat hit back, serious. “There’s no need to snap at him. What’s up with you?”

“Yeah, man, has Howell changed you?” Another joke. Another so-unfunny-it-just-made-it-all-feel-worse joke. Phil’s head hurt. He wanted to see Dan and his head hurt.

“No, it’s—” Phil rubbed his hand over his face with a strong breath. “I’m sorry, I’m just really tired. I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking about having to move to London and all, and I’m exhausted.”

“Don’t you want to move?” Cat inquired, sparked by genuine interest.

“I mean, I do. But it’s a commitment. It’s far away and, well, I won’t have anybody.”

“You’ll have Dan,” Chris tried again. This time, Phil managed the thinnest of smiles.

“Yeah, maybe,” he agreed. “Maybe not. Depends if he comes or not.”

“If you let him come, you mean,” Cat corrected. “Honestly, that boy would do anything to get what he wanted. He’s trying to come to London with you just because he wants to live there. He doesn’t even care that he’s rejected you for so long.”

“Let’s just stop talking about me,” Phil knew he had to get away from Dan’s name before he started building instinctive barricades around it, sending missiles in the direction of all those who dared to so much as say his name. “How did the party end up going in the end?”

“Great after he left,” Chris mumbled. “Tanner and Abi sorta stayed out of the way. He’s definitely the problem in the lot of it, the spark of all the chaos.”

Phil gritted his teeth and looked down at the corridor’s flooring.

_You’re the problem in all of this._

><

The day was as awfully prolonged and tedious as all expectations predicted. The pain in Phil’s head fluttered into the dull area of discomfort as the day heaved itself forward and he considered visiting the nurse, but eventually just decided against it. After (unbelievably, only) third period, he received a text and unlocked his phone on the way to next lesson.

_meet me by the bike sheds. back of the field. - d._

The number was unknown but the little letter attached at the end informed Phil of who it belonged to. His stomach did a perfect summersault, followed by a little-less-than-perfect cartwheel and in such an intense moment of relief, he didn’t offer a moment’s thought to what skipping next period would mean. He just wanted to fucking see Dan, he was sick to death of everybody else.

So he left with the swarm of kids in gym gear heading out onto the muddy field, and then slipped away in the rain towards the bike sheds. Dan was stood there on his own in a black jacket, water all over him and a cigarette between his lips.

“Hey,” Phil called, louder to reach him through the downpour. “You had to call me out here in this goddamn weather? And do you sign all your texts?”

“I didn’t know if I ever let you have my number and clearly you’re inexperienced in the art of skipping class if you think inside is an option,” Dan breathed out a cloud of smoke that instantly dissolved under the touch of the English weather, then stubbed out his cigarette under his boot. “You took forever, I texted you halfway through last lesson. Come here.”

He hooked his arms around Phil’s wet neck and pulled them together, cheeks brushing as Phil’s nose dipped against his shoulder. Dan shuffled them back so they were concealed behind the bike sheds and shifted into a desperate hug. “I missed you,” he breathed against Phil's neck. “Missed you so much.”

“I missed you, too,” Phil cupped Dan’s face and fought against the aching urge to touch their lips when he brushed their wet foreheads. “You doing okay?”

“I fucking hate it here,” Dan pushed his heavy fringe out of his eyes, other hand still around the collar of Phil’s jacket.

“Yeah, it doesn’t feel as good as it used to. It was decent before you started letting me do this, a sort-of escape from the silence between us,” Phil moved them back into a hug, arms tight around Dan. “It’s all I’m thinking about now. Being this close to you.”

“Do you wanna ditch?” Dan’s exhale danced across Phil’s lips, eyes so alive as he took him in. Every little touch of his fingertips said he wanted to be as near to Phil as he would allow himself to be.

“Ditch?” Phil’s eyebrows threaded down. “Like, school?”

“Yes, darling,” Dan rolled his eyes. “School.”

“For the rest of the day? Won’t that be suspicious?”

“Just for this hour, then. I mean, we might as well. We’re already skipping,” Dan shrugged his shoulders.

“What if we get caught?”

“By who? The teachers outside of school?” he teased with a fond smile. Phil loved it, he loved all of this so much. “Come on, ditch with me. You can tell me about your day so far.”

“Only if you tell me about yours, then,” Phil compromised gently, and Dan’s lips lifted higher at the agreement. He dragged his hand down Phil’s sleeve and pulled on his wrist.

“I know a quick way, it’s a route Tanner and I always take,” One of Dan’s fingers slipped from around Phil’s wrist into his palm, and the instinct was just to hold on. They both ignored it. “Let’s hope he isn’t skipping too and sees us.”

“What?” Phil felt brief panic fizzle in the back of his throat.

Dan laughed ahead of Phil and it came dulled behind the rush of rain. It was there despite that, though. “Darling, I’m kidding. As if I’d bring you out here if I knew he was skipping.”

Phil didn’t know why his chest contracted at that. There was probably a number of reasons, a number of reasons he wasn’t in the right mind to confront. He just smiled, even though Dan wouldn’t have been able to see it from where he was leading in front of him.

“Where are we going?” Phil questioned as they appeared out just in front of the school’s parking lot. They’d skidded around the bushes to the side roads skirting the building.

“I don’t know,” Dan turned back through the rain with a smile that, for a moment, looked so much like the sun that all the rain dried up. “Where do you want to go? I can take you wherever.”

“I’m not good with places. Surprise me?”

“Yeah, sure. Okay.”

Dan guided Phil down a road that bordered the previous one. They passed houses and turned corners, until they came up onto a small stretch of greenery that was swarmed by the scraggly branches of a large tree. Beneath there, the rain wasn’t nearly as violent, and Phil shook the sleeves of his coat. When he looked up, Dan was sitting on a lowest branch of the tree.

“Jesus, that was fast,” Phil’s voice was delighted by a chuckle.

“Come up,” Dan patted the space next to him. “It’s not high, give me your hand.”

Phil moved closer and extended his hand and Dan pulled on the grip to lift him up. It was so nice, sheltered under the leaves. Something about the privacy there was so blissful and so rare.

“How do you know this place?” Phil asked him softly. “I don’t think I’ve ever even been down this road before.”

“Tanner and Abi live a little further up the street.”

“They moved?”

“Yeah, about a year ago.”

“Wow,” Phil breathed. “Never knew that.”

Dan shrugged and looked down at their thighs that were pressed together. “So, how’s your day?”

“Sorta shit. Chris and Cat were pissing me off and I’ve had a raging headache all morning,” Phil rubbed his temples, sensing that the storm there seemed to have calmed moderately.

“Why were they pissing you off?”

“Just stupid remarks. It was nothing really, I’m just tired,” Phil used the small moment of silence to recollect a memory that had been plaguing his mind. “Hey, why were you off this morning? Did I do something?”

“What?”

“You were being weird. Like, not looking at me and stuff. I don’t know, it felt like you were mad. I thought it might have been about . . . you know, what I said last night. But—”

“It’s not, it wasn’t,” Dan shook his head and chewed on his lip. “I just—Well, I wasn’t going to mention this until later but I don’t think it’s a good idea to sleep together at the house.”

“What do you mean?” Phil’s voice angled in equal surprise and alarm.

Dan focused on the kick of his feet. “I just don’t think we should.”

“Was it me? Did I do something?” Phil didn’t even mean to put his hand on Dan’s knee and squeeze the bone there. The little movement was aching with nostalgia.

“You did nothing, it wasn’t anything you did. I was just freaking out so much when I woke up and thought about, like, Bernie or Elise accidentally finding us there. What they’d say, what they’d do,” Dan moved his fingers around the fabric of his long sleeves. The fact that Phil knew why he was wearing them and why he was probably never going to stop hurt a lot. It hurt in a way it never had before. Not in a confusion, but in an understanding.

“So you want to, like . . . ” Phil paused at his sore mind saying you don’t want this. “Lay in our own beds?”

“Is that okay?” Dan flickered his eyes up, finally. “It’s just that I’m always gonna be worried about them finding us and—”

“We could always just put the lock on the door. Besides, it’s not like we’re doing anything. Just sleeping,” Phil quietly suggested.

“They’d just question us about why the door was locked if they tried to get in. And we’re teenage boys sleeping in the same bed, Phil, I’d say that equates to ‘doing something’ in most heads.”

“Not exactly. They might infer shit, yeah, but we know the truth.”

“That means nothing though, does it?” Dan stopped. “Can we just sleep apart?”

“Yeah, okay,” Phil looked down to his own feet. Fucking hell, it wasn’t okay at all. None of this with Dan was okay either, he knew that, but it was less not-okay than just going back to sleeping apart. Phil fucking needed him like that. He didn’t want the emptiness of a single bed on the right side of the room.

“Phil,” Dan sighed on the name, arm finding its way around Phil’s waist. He pushed himself closer into his side and rested his head on his shoulder. “Don’t be upset, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not you. It’s them. It’s all of them.”

“Yeah,” Dan sounded distant as he traced patterns on Phil's back. “Still sorry though. Sorry I got us back into this mess by dragging you to Manchester. If I’d never done that, we’d still be sleeping in separate beds and not fucking ditching school just to be close to each other.”

“No, I like it better this way,” Phil promised, and titled his head to rest it atop of Dan’s wet hair. “Don’t apologise for making it easier.”

“It’s not easier though. We’ve just gone back to that toxic thing where we constantly want to touch each other,” Dan let out a breathy laugh and wrapped his other arm around Phil’s stomach. “But I can’t help it. I’ve got such an obsession with you, you have no idea.”

Phil snorted. “Should I be freaked out by that?”

“Maybe. It’s already pretty serious. I might make a shrine to you soon or write a book about you. You smell like peppermint and whatever the name is of that shit Elise uses on the linen.”

“So I smell good?”

Dan sighed into him. “Shut up. Just shut up and do something productive. Find a way to pause the world or something.”

“Hhm?”

“Find a way to pause it. Make it stop so I can sit here with you forever and find new ways to be near you.”

“I know a few ways,” Phil mumbled.

“Yeah?” Dan glanced up with amused eyes. “I don’t think so, darling.”

Phil’s voice squeezed. “Really?”

Dan shook his head. “It’s not . . . like that with you. I love Abi, remember?”

“Right, yeah. I was kidding anyway, chill out.”

“Sure, Phil. I was just saying, you know. Don’t think of you in that way.”

The final sentence was quiet and uncontrolled, like it was being grounded by weights of uncertainty.

“I know. Me neither.”

It was fucking stupid, they both knew it. They’d always known it. And it seemed Dan hated pretending unless it was him that was doing the pretending.

“Hey,” Dan changed the subject with a reluctance, hand retrieving his phone from his pocket. “Do you want to listen to some music?”

“Uh, yeah, alright,” Phil took an earphone and put it in his ear, Dan using the other. He started to scroll through the playlist of music on his phone.

“What do you like?” he asked Phil. “I’ll listen to whatever you want.”

“I’m not used to you being this nice to me,” Phil admitted with a little laugh, leaning his face into the side of Dan’s. “I love it though. Keep at it, you’re doing good.”

“Well, I’m trying,” Dan grinned. “Gotta, like, make you feel okay around me again. It’s hard when we’ve been so distant for so long.”

“I know. It's not just down to you though.”

“Shut up, Phil. When have you ever not been lovely to me?”

Phil’s lips upturned again, settling in place. Dan clicked on a playlist labelled ‘the best’ and a list of songs appeared.

“Do you like any of these?”

“I can’t say I know what most of them are,” Phil admitted.

“Seriously? Shall I play a couple for you?”

Phil nodded and waited. When the music began, he pulled his bottom lip into his mouth as he listened hard.

“This is a band called Nirvana,” Dan told him. “They were grunge. Characterised the style of music really.”

_I’m so happy because today I’ve found my friends, they’re in my head._

Phil nodded along to the continual strum of a guitar. “It’s cool. Are they still around now?”

“No, no,” Dan shook his head. “The frontman, Kurt Cobain, killed himself. Back in 1994, I’m pretty sure it was.”

“That’s sad. How old was he?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Damn,” Phil exhaled, quick. “That’s such a shame. His music was great.”

Dan’s eyes lit up. “Yeah? You think?”

_And just maybe, I’m to blame for all I’ve heard._

“Definitely. It’s a good sound.”

“It is,” Dan turned back to his phone and moved down the section of his playlist that consisted of this band. “Do you want to hear another?”

Phil’s nod was coloured with enthusiasm.

“Okay,” Dan clicked on one. “This is from another album, but it’s my favourite Nirvana song. Called All Apologies.”

_What else should I be?_

Phil attention sparked around the lyrics and that was exhibited in the strong shape of concentration on his face.

_What else could I write? I don’t have the right._

“I really like this,” Phil absently mumbled, not wanting to distract himself from the song.

_I wish I was like you, easily amused._

_Find my nest of salt, everything is my fault._

“I imagine I looked like that when I first heard it,” Dan joked, nudging his head against Phil’s shoulder. “God bless Nirvana.”

“Indeed,” Phil’s smile collapsed into a laugh after some time. _All in all is all we are_. “Play me another.”

“From Nirvana?”

“No, just something on your excellent playlist.”

Dan took the time to scroll down (for at least a minute, the collection of music was that extensive) and click onto another track. It began slowly in Phil’s ears.

“What’s this?” he inquired.

“Linkin Park. It’s a song called Numb. Do you like?”

_I’m tired of being what you want me to be._

“I like,” Phil confirmed, after some time. “Are they rock?”

“Sorta. More, like, alternative metal.”

“You know a lot of bands,” Phil complimented softly. “It’s good. Didn’t know you were so educated.”

“Bernie has a lot of these records,” Dan shrugged. “Just learn them from there.”

“Oh, okay.”

_Can’t you see that you’re smothering me, holding too tightly, afraid to lose control?_

“Linkin Park are good. Do you have more?”

“As much as you want, darling,” Dan said, and Phil’s heart whispered its gratitude at the name. “How about this? My Chemical Romance.”

Another song began with the sound of intense guitar chords.

“I’m Not Okay,” Dan recited. “Gonna get this tattooed to my face when I’m old enough.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Do you not like?”

Phil shrugged.

“We can’t be friends if you don’t My Chemical Romance. Just putting that out there.”

“It’s not bad, not at all,” Phil said, honestly. “It’s different though."

“A good different?”

Phil nodded slowly. _Remember when you broke your foot from jumping out the second floor?_ “A good different. A good weird, too.”

“Only weird if you don’t get it.”

“What’s that?” Phil pressed onto Dan’s screen and there was a pause before a different song began.

“Eminem.”

“Oh, the rapper?”

“That’s it. This song is called Sing For The Moment. It’s one of the best songs ever, if you ask me. Tanner says it’s a load of shit compared to his others,” Dan rolled his eyes. “Just don’t think he gets it. You have to listen.”

_He’s a problem child, what bothers him all comes out when he talks about his fucking dad walking out._

Phil let his eyes flicker to Dan through the spur of lyrics and music.

_’Cause he hates him so bad that he blocks him out, if he ever saw him again he’d probably knock him out._

_His thoughts are whacked, he’s mad so he’s talking back, talking black, brainwashed from rock and rap._

Phil didn’t want to tell Dan that he felt him in these angry words. That he was there in the rage and the pain.

_Everybody just feels like they can relate, I guess words are a motherfucker._

“This is my favourite,” Phil found the words in him eventually.

Dan snapped his attention up. “Really? You think it’s good?”

“His words are really important.”

“They are,” There was relief in Dan’s voice at Phil’s understanding of the song. “They’re honest. It doesn’t take a lot more than that from any artist to get my attention. He says everything in here that makes so much sense in my head, that I’m always thinking about.”

“You think a lot, don’t you?” Phil mumbled, reaching his hand up to brush his thumb down the side of Dan’s forehead. “You ever gonna let me in there?”

His smile came weak. “Don’t need to. We are what we think about.”

><

They walked back to school in time for lunch, like nothing had even happened. Dan hugged Phil so tightly that he expected to feel his ribs collapse into his stomach and his heart to go right along with it. The rain streamed down their entwined bodies and Dan nuzzled his wet face up to Phil’s ear to mumble, “Miss you already.”

“Miss you, too,” Phil squeezed on his tiny frame once more. “You coming straight home after school? I gotta go a couple hours without you as it is.”

Dan laughed, soft and touched. “I think I’m going out with Tanner and Abi.”

“Oh. Where?”

“Park or something. Place to hang out.”

“Like the cool kids you are,” Phil’s mock came as a sigh.

“ _Hey._ We are cool.”

“You’re the coolest,” Phil dragged his hands down Dan's sides and stepped back. “Well. See you whenever, then.”

Dan’s hand tumbled down to Phil’s as they pulled apart, fingers pulling tight together. They were holding hands for five seconds— _five fucking seconds_ —until they broke away at the distance they were moving in opposite directions.

Dan lifted his hand in a little wave over his shoulder. “See you whenever, darling.”

 _Whenever_ turned out to be eight that night. After Phil had arrived home after school, after he’d gone to buy bread and milk for Elise and after he’d eaten dinner. He was upstairs completing a drawing for his art class when Dan entered the room, jacket under his arm and bag still on his back. He was eating a slice of bread.

“Alright?” Dan offered him a brief greeting, plonking his shit onto his bed.

“Hey. Is that your dinner?” Phil gestured to the bread in his hand.

“Yeah, basically. I ate while I was out, didn’t want much,” he dismissed it.

“What did you get up to?”

“Oh, you know. Usual shit. Smoking, kicking a football around, laughing about a bunch of people we have no right to laugh about.”

Phil gave a thin smile. “At least you know that.”

“Yeah, well,” Dan was sorting through his bag, laying books out on his bed to put away. He had his back to Phil when he took something out of his drawer and a clenched fist when he headed out of the room with a change of baggy clothes.

Phil shrugged it off.

><

If it needed to be confirmed, they slept in separate beds that night. Phil’s eyes grew so heavy with exhaustion that he rushed through the end of the drawing to tuck his art-pad away back into his school bag, ready for tomorrow. Dan was already asleep with his bedside light off when Phil popped two headache tablets and swallowed them with a glass of water, before settled under his covers. He replied all that was necessary to Cat’s message about the art homework and then switched his own light off.

All was well for a while. It was. No matter how displeasing it was to lay there alone after the many previous nights of being curled up to someone else, Phil wasn’t aching for contact. Knowing Dan was right across from him seemed enough to calm the waves rolling against his heart.

Still, he tossed and turned for a long time. His head was fucking pounding and he really just wanted some relief; he drank his entire glass of water and ended up sitting on the edge of his bed, feet on the floor, with his head in his hands. It just kept going, over and over, and he sat there counting the seconds between each thump like the thunder crashes in a storm. It must have been after one as he sat considering going downstairs to find something cold for his head, when Dan gave a little whimper from across the room.

Phil squinted through the darkness and watched the sheets moving around the stirring silhouette.

“Dan?” Phil called in a whisper. Nothing. He groaned and put a hand to his head as he walked slowly across to Dan’s bed, darkness pulsing behind his eyes in a synchronisation with his head. The boy was asleep, face mushed into his pillow, but he kept making these horrible sounds like somebody was pushing nails under his skin.

Phil put his hands on the edge of Dan’s bed to feel his way closer to him. His skull throbbed over and over and he knelt down at the bedside so that he was looking at Dan.

“Dan?” he said his name again, hand touching his back. His shirt was damp with sweat and he brought his thin hands to his face to stifle a cry. It became apparent in that second that he was having a nightmare.

“Dan, Dan, hey,” Phil shook him, action gentle at first then growing stronger. Dan cried out incoherent words all jumbled together and eventually jolted awake, bolting upright with fast breaths.

“Fuck,” he choked, drenched in sweat and throat all dry. “W-What—Phil?”

“You were having a nightmare, lovely, I woke you up,” Phil’s tired voice informed the weary boy as he dried the tears on his cheeks with his fingers. “Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Dan answered with a shake of his head. He rearranged his sheets and lay back down and Phil sighed, standing back to his feet. He decided then it would be a good idea to go and get another glass of water in the slight chance it would soothe his frantic head.

So Phil carried his empty glass down and the stairs creaked under his weight. An unintentional groan of pain stumbled from his lips as he held it under the faucet, filling it halfway. He stood there at the counter, tugging the roots of his hair for a couple of minutes, and then took the half-full glass back up the stairs. When he slipped back into the bedroom, it took his eyes some time to adjust again, but he managed to get over to his bed and rest his glass down.

“Phil?” The press of the name sounded like it wasn’t the first Dan had called him.

“Sorry, yeah? What is it?” Phil moved his way through the darkness back across to him. He was sitting up with his sheets wrapped around him, shivering.

“Will you—” he swallowed back a strange resistance. “Will you lay with me for five minutes?”

Phil stumbled to the bed and whispered, “Of course,” before perching himself down on the bed. He’d only just settled when Dan scrambled onto his lap and wrapped thin arms around his waist. He was fucking _solidifying_ with the chills gnawing at his skin.

“Hello, lovely,” Phil held him there in his arms, voice velvet in the boy’s ear. “You’re just near freezing to death.”

“It’s a cold sweat from the nightmare,” Dan’s teeth chattered when he spoke.

“What was it about? Talk to me.”

Dan being in Phil’s arms was a profound enough distraction from the ache in his head. Everything slowed, came through a hazy state of serenity. Of _this is how it’s supposed to be, you and I._

“Just—” Dan shifted to move their bodies closer, chests pushing tougher. “My dad. It . . . was about my dad.”

“Your dad?” Phil’s voice softened on the second word and Dan tilted his head up on a nod, allowing him to take his face in his hands. He brushed his thumb across his damp face. “I’m sorry. Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“I told o-on him. He was screaming and throwing shit a-and he tried to do it again, he pinned me down and he—he—”

“What, love?” Phil nudged their faces. “What did he do to you?”

“He—” Dan balled the fabric at the bottom of Phil’s shirt and squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenching under the agonising drag of pain. “I-I can’t, Phil, I can’t—You’ll think I’m disgusting—”

“No,” Phil urged the word into Dan’s ear and tightened his arms around his small frame. “Never. I could never. Don’t you think this is your fault, I won’t have that.”

“He made me hurt, Phil,” Dan croaked and buried his face into Phil’s shoulder, breathing down across his chest. “He made me hurt s-so much.”

“Hey, now, shh,” Phil rested his head on Dan’s. “You’re not allowed to cry about that asshole anymore. You’re not allowed to give him anymore of your pain, anymore of yourself. You deserve so much more than all that shit he put you through and I’m gonna try and protect you from it now, okay? I’m gonna try for you, I promise. Come on, where are your earphones?”

“W-What?”

“Your earphones, sweetheart. Where are they?”

Dan aimlessly pointed through the thick air to his bedside table. Phil leaned across, other arm still around Dan, and reached for the phone and earphones. He untangled the cord and clipped them into the top of the phone, proceeding to put a bud in both he and Dan’s ears.

“Phil, I don’t want to listen.”

“Shush, we are. It’ll help you stay calm,” Phil scrolled until he found My Chemical Romance and selected the first song he saw. Dan’s patent love for them burned with dancing, scorching flames and—

“No, Phil, not this. I want—” Dan reached to change the song and the audio switched.

With Dan sitting on his lap, Phil leaned them down so he was above Dan’s body and Dan was laying on his back, and they stayed there with the music playing quietly in their ears. The younger clung to the older on top of him with desperate fingers.

_I don’t believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now._

“Which one’s this?” Phil set the words down into Dan’s neck. “Hhm?”

“Wonderwall. D-Do you remember it?”

Phil recalled the memory of them sitting in the garage together. The voice, the lyrics, the tune. It all . . . made sense. Came together, sort-of. “Yeah, I remember.”

“It always makes me think of you.”

_There are many things that I would like to say to you but I don’t know how._

“What did I ever do so special?” Phil traced his thumb across Dan’s lips.

“You’re my wonderwall,” Dan spoke so cautiously that it was almost like he didn’t want Phil to cease the touch, didn’t want his thumb to falter over the words. _Maybe you’re gonna be the one that saves me._

“I am?”

“Yeah,” Dan looked up into the azure eyes above him. “You save me. A-All the time. Keep me sane and help me. I don’t know if that’s what the song means, but it’s what I think it does.”

“I’m glad I help you,” Phil tried to conceal his flattery by focusing on the way his finger dipped into the small cracks in Dan’s lips. He wanted to fucking kiss him so much. So, so much.

And it was a startling thought, of course, but he was just right there. He’d always been right there, only this time it felt like he was closer and even though they didn’t think about one another like that, even though Phil didn’t want him like that, he wondered for half a second what it would feel like. Just let the thought of _soft or rough_ flutter across the spaces of attention in his mind.

“He's never gonna hurt you ever again, you know?” Phil eventually cut a jagged line through the safe silence. “Your dad. I’d never fucking let him touch you, not ever again. It’s all gone now, sweetheart, okay? I’m gonna protect you with my life.”

Dan moved his hands to the hem of Phil’s shirt and touched their foreheads, earphones tumbling out as he moved them to climb back on his lap. Everything about it said _nobody else would ever even think of saying that to me_ and it was so beautiful, so _sickeningly_ beautiful how they’d found this in one another. How two kids at an orphanage had found a home just above the ribs of the other.

“I didn’t do anything to deserve you,” Dan gently pushed on Phil’s chest to lay him down and rested on top of him, one hand on his chest and the other above his head. Their faces rubbed and Phil’s breath caught, heart begged _please, kiss me_. “I didn’t do anything but you’re here and—And you could never have any idea how you make me feel. It all scares me so fucking much—”

“Shh,” Phil reached up to pull Dan closer and their exhales met in harmony with their gazes. “Don’t be scared, baby, we’re okay.”

Dan shut his eyes and whispered, “Say that again.”

Phil hummed with a questioning tone, hands sliding behind Dan’s head.

“Call me that again,” Dan’s sigh sounded like a whine as he melted at the name. “Call me it again, Phil.”

“Baby,” Phil murmured into his ear and felt the chill of his body as he ached into a closer proximity, hands moving from Phil’s chest down to his stomach and fluttering across the bare skin where his shirt had ridden up. Phil’s soul ignited at the touch and they were both there, burning in that little bed.

“Do you want me to stay here tonight?” Phil voice was so soft, a prisoner to Dan’s cold fingers against his hot stomach. There was nothing but slow breathing. “Dan, baby, do you want me to stay here?”

Dan breathed a sigh that sounded so precious and endearing, and he mewled, “Yeah, Phil. Stay with me.”

Phil’s head continued to pound as he lay there with Dan’s frail body on his chest, but eventually a wary hand moved from his stomach up to his hair, and the considerate movements started to wish the pain away.

“Got a headache,” Phil whispered. “Keep doing that, it helps.”

And so Dan stayed there, touching his fingers against Phil’s head with occasional pressure and Phil didn’t feel anything but _I think I’m doing okay_ as he fell asleep under him.

><

In the morning, Phil’s skull was still drumming. Like his brain had swelled and had been growing through the night. Bernie and Elise were arguing with Dan about the quality of his homework when Phil walked into the kitchen and sat down, one hand still in his hair.

“Are you okay, dear?” Elise noticed his indistinct presence.

“My head’s killing me,” Phil complained. “I don’t know if I’ve got a migraine starting.”

“Oh, no. They’re awful things, lad,” Bernie leaned across and squeezed Phil’s shoulder as Elise put a hand to his forehead.

“You’re burning up, love,” she said. “I’ll find you some strong tablets and you can rest up today.”

“I can’t, mom, I’ve got school.”

“You’re not going in with a migraine,” Elise told him, back to him as she stirred a metal spoon through a coffee. “Go and settle on the sofa and I’ll bring you some things in.”

“I don’t want to skip school, mom,” Phil replied and Dan scoffed. Phil shot him a glare and when their eyes met, their reactions softened.

“Well, you’ll just have to today, won’t you?”

So Phil went and lay down on the sofa whilst Elise sorted temporary treatments for him in the kitchen. He shut his eyes as the TV played softly in the corner of the room and the morning light filtered down from between the curtains.

“Hey.”

Phil opened his eyes and found Dan standing there, bag on his back and jacket on.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” Phil’s voice was hoarse. He thought maybe he was coming down with the flu, what with his aches and pains and nausea and dry throat.

“I’m just getting off to school,” Dan glanced behind him at the closed door then knelt down at Phil’s side. “I’ll text you all day, okay?”

“You don’t have to,” Phil mumbled, resting against his arm. “Just focus on your lessons.”

“No, thanks,” Dan dismissed with an eye roll. He glanced behind him once more—as if checking continually for Elise’s presence—before leaning down and pressing a kiss to Phil’s forehead. Phil’s eyes clouded in disbelief as he looked up at Dan's gentle, “Get well soon, darling.”

“I—” he couldn’t even speak. “Uh, thanks. I will.”

And then Dan was gone, gone as quick as Elise came into the room. She rested a cold compress on his head and draped a thin blanket over his body. It was much like that for the rest of the day, Elise fussing over Phil’s physical discomfort. She drew the curtains tighter and turned the TV off and made him soup and refreshed his glass of water. She even went down to the local pharmacy for throat sweets and cough drops to soothe the pain twisting around the particular area of his chest.

Dan texted Phil whilst she was out for the first time, and although it hurt his eyes to look at the bright screen, Phil knew who it was and couldn't resist just looking.

i miss you. how are you feeling? - d.

Phil smiled—the pressure on his head was quick in drawing his lips back down—and typed out a reply.

**still shit. everything hurts. mom’s gone to the pharmacy and i’m trying to rest. i miss you more. i’ll sign my texts too because i think it’s cute. - p.**

**i also think it’s cute that you have such accurate grammar (like i always do) in your texts. i’m sorry you feel so shitty. - d.**

**it’s not your fault. what lesson are you in? - p.**

**history but stop pretending to care. i’ll stay away a bit after school so i don’t get your illness. - d.**

**shut up. you know you’ll just be desperate to hug me and the temptation will be too much for your weak little heart. - p.**

**excuse me. my heart is not weak. it just likes you. - d.**

Phil rolled onto his back, phone resting on his stomach with the faintest smile he could manage.

**my heart likes you too. - p.**

**cat came and asked where you were today. she actually came up to us lot. you should probably text her back. - d.**

Phil allowed his mind stutter to Cat for a moment. He just didn’t want to talk to her. Her comments from yesterday had really gotten under his skin and he didn’t want to give her the opportunity to spurt more shit about the person he cared for the most in the world.

**she text me earlier. i don’t really want to talk to her today. if you see her again, just tell her i’m sleeping it off. -p.**

**sure, darling. i’ll lie for you. gotta keep my phone in my pocket now so abi doesn’t take it and see that. - d.**

Phil sighed and a pain jolted down the back of his neck.

**might get the wrong idea. whatever. i’m gonna try and rest this shit off now. talk to you later? -p.**

**sure. get well soon x - d.**

**oh, a kiss x - p.**

**shh it’s just a cross x - d.**

**x - p.**

**x - d.**

Phil tucked his phone under his arm and lay his head down on the pillow Elise had carried down for him. He shut his eyes in the dim room and focused on recalling his conversation with Dan to distract himself from the charges of pain stuttering along the cables of his mind. 

><

The doorbell sounded in Phil’s ears before Elise got home from the pharmacy. He figured it was just the postman, knowing they weren’t expecting anyone, but slowly got to his feet to peek out of the curtain when the bell rang again. He felt so fucking dizzy when he stood up, reaching to pull the curtain back. Cat was there with her dark hair pulled away from her face and a hand on her hip.

“Jesus,” Phil blasphemed. She knew he was there, and the decision was made to let her in. His vision was distorted and limbs all heavy as he dragged himself out of the room and down the hallway. He unlocked the door and opened it ajar.

Cat raised her eyebrows in a not-so-subtle greeting. “You look like shit,” she noted.

“Feel it.”

“Can I come in?” she didn’t wait a beat to demand, “Let me in, Phil.”

Phil stepped back and allowed her to slide inside. The cool air poured across his skin and he shivered in his short-sleeved shirt, shutting the door on her back.

“Come on through,” he mumbled to her.

“There’s a letter on the floor here, addressed to you,” Cat said from behind him.

“I don’t really wanna read anything with this headache, can you just get it for me?”

Cat replied with a, “Sure,” as she followed him through back into the living-room. Phil climbed onto the sofa again and draped the thin blanket across his stomach, hand supporting the back of his neck.

“Why are you skipping school? Sorry I never replied to you, I’ve been asleep most of the day and figured it would just be better if I avoided screens—”

“Hey,” Cat sliced through his words. She was holding an open letter in her hands and her eyes were strong, sombre and rigorous. “This is a letter from your college.”

“What college? The one in London?”

Cat nodded, slowly. “It’s about your application. They’re . . . offering you a tour."

Phil’s entire fucking body was burning with his temperature and he ached everywhere. He didn’t have the energy to defend himself against the failure beginning to scrawl across his features but he tried regardless. “That’s weird. Maybe they sent it twice because I didn’t reply to the first one.”

“You did reply, though,” Cat eyed him a stern doubt. “You went to the damn tour, Phil, I think that counts as replying.”

“Maybe this just came late, maybe they sent it before I went. I mean, I don’t know how long Dan—”

“Phil, just _cut_ the bullshit,” Cat twisted the letter in a tight fist. Her voice didn’t even need to raise a slight level for him to feel the impact of the words. “I know there’s something going on here. You’re acting so unlike yourself and now it’s obvious you didn’t even go to London?”

“No, it’s not,” Phil managed to sit up. He wanted to puke as his nerves twisted around themselves. “I went on the weekend, why would I lie about that? What would I get out of that?”

“You went somewhere but not to London. I fucking know you, Phil Lester, and certainly well enough to know when you’re hiding something. Your goddamn hand is bandaged up and this letter has come and you’ve obviously been ignoring me. Don’t insult me.”

“I’m not, I’m—”

“Has he got you involved in something?” Cat shook with an irritation at Dan’s mention. “Some dirty little scheme of his? Hhm? What shit has he got on you, Phil?”

“Nothing, Cat! God, he hasn’t done anything!”

“You keep defending him. I’ve noticed that, too. You really aren’t very good at keeping secrets, you know?”

“Cat, I’m not keeping any secrets!” Phil’s defence was weakening, he knew that. But he didn’t know it truly until Cat neared him and fisted his shirt, spitting her emotion into his face.

“I know you’re sick but I swear to God, I’ll kill you if you don’t tell me what you’re doing.”

Phil tried to push her hand from his shirt but he crumbled with a feeble breath and barely even managed, “Okay, okay. Just get off me and sit down.”

Cat immediately perched herself next to him on the sofa. “Tell me, Phil. I’m not gonna let you treat me like a fool anymore—”

“I’m gonna tell you, dammit, if you’d just wait a second,” Phil rubbed his fingers into the sides of his head. He didn’t know which pieces of truth to gather here. “It’s all so complicated and the only reason I haven’t told you is because I didn’t want to. It has nothing to do with Dan having shit on me or blackmailing me or whatever you have in mind. It’s about him, yeah, but he hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“What about him?” Cat’s voice was still aching with pressure.

Phil shut his eyes. “We went to Manchester. Not London. I only told you it was London because that was the easiest option and I couldn’t tell you the truth because then you'd ask questions I had no right to answer.”

“What, like why the hell you were in Manchester?”

“Yes, like that. We were there because Dan was visiting a relative and—” Phil couldn’t fucking do this to him. He couldn’t. He’d promised. “Cat, I can’t. I swore to him I wouldn’t tell."

“Phil—”

“No, please. This is so important and it’s not my place to tell anyone. I know you’re, like, my closest friend but you just need to be okay with me skipping past this part," Phil refused to give her time to speak. “We were visiting Dan’s relative and something happened that brought us closer—a lot closer—and now it’s so different between us. It’s like it used to be when we were kids but more real.”

“Phil, what the _fuck_ are you talking about? Are you just terrible at explaining this? What happened that brought you closer? And what do you mean by ‘closer’? What does that imply?”

“I told you, I’m not telling you what it was,” Phil forced a response between gritted teeth. The agony of it only inflicted more pain on his head. “I can’t. Just respect that, respect him.”

Cat scoffed. “Not bloody likely.”

“He’s not the person you think he is, Cat,” Phil insisted, eyes passionate and intense. “He’s so much more than an opinion could ever describe. He’s a better person than me and don’t you dare say he isn’t because you know nothing about him.”

“And you do?” Cat laughed, harsh. “What’s wrong with you? How are you ‘closer’?”

“We just . . . are.”

“Like, _physically_?”

Phil nodded slowly. “Something terrible happened to him, Cat. And he needs me to be there for him because nobody else will.”

“What does it mean to be there for him?” Her tone began to pacify somewhat. Maybe it was the way Phil was talking about the boy.

“You know, like, hug him. Calm him. Be there when he needs comfort. We’ve . . . We’ve been sleeping in the same bed a bit since it happened.”

Cat took a strong breath. “Phil, this is—”

“I know,” he mumbled. “I know it’s weird. I know it’s not . . . normal. But it’s so right, Cat, I can’t tell you how right it is.”

“Have you—” she swallowed, like this was too much. It probably fucking was because it was for him, talking about it all in such a way. “Do you feel things for him?”

“Feel things?”

“Romantically, you know. Are you into that stuff?” Cat stared at him. “Are you gay?"

The question was so different hitting the air than what he’d expected. It sort-of just floated there, lay waiting on a calm ocean for something to come and pick it up. He’d expected a storm—thunder and lightning and gushes of rain—but there was none of that. His heart seemed to be quite fond of it; it reached down and collected it and cradled it there so close to Dan’s name that the two merged together.

“I don’t feel that for him,” Phil told Cat. He wasn’t at all convincing. He felt everything for Dan that was possible for a human to feel for another.

“Are you sure?” she murmured, and gently placed her hand over his. “Because that would be okay with me. Honestly, Phil, it would. Don’t ever think it’s okay to be frightened of who you are. It would be complicated if you, you know, liked Dan but you could work with it.”

“Work with it?” Phil almost squeaked. “How?”

“Well, he’s not your brother. Biologically, I mean. You aren’t blood-related—”

“But everybody thinks we’re brothers, Cat. And I can’t be fucking crushing on my _brother_ , for God’s sake," Phil’s voice shook with the weight of the world.

“You’re crushing on him?” Cat echoed softly. “For real? You . . . like him?”

Phil held his breath.

“Phil, babe. It’s me. You can tell me anything, I won’t breathe a word to anybody else. Do you like him?”

Phil wondered if she even caught it when he nodded his head, it was that faint of a movement. He wasn’t looking at her—he couldn’t—because he’d just gone and admitted that he liked Dan Howell. After all these years, after all the stupid smiles and dirty secrets and garage records, he’d admitted it. Maybe it was supposed to have some more of an effect, mean something more or have a greater impact, but he liked it better this way. No pretending anymore, he thought, and Dan hated pretending.

“Damn, that’s been building up for a while,” Cat squeezed his hand. “The way you looked at him when you were kids made it bloody obvious you fancied him, I just thought you’d grown out of it. I thought you hated him.”

“I don’t. I could never. I care for him so much, you have no idea.”

“Does he know?”

“That I . . . ” Phil trailed off, not able to form _that I like him like that and I want him like that_. “No. And he can’t ever know, that would fuck everything up again.”

“Is it awkward for you? Does he ask you for hugs and stuff? Is he clingy like that? Do you have that kinda relationship now?”

“He’s not clingy, not anymore than I am at least. And it’s not awkward because he doesn’t make me feel awkward. I sometimes think he feels the same but he always subtly shuts me down. Like, talking about Abi and stuff. He loves her and I know that.”

“Phil, no offence,” Cat smiled. “But you didn’t know _you_ liked him until, like, right now.”

“No, I did. I’ve known—” Phil paused to collect his thoughts. His heart was hammering out of control. “I’ve known for years, Cat. But it’s so much more real now. It’s so much more, like . . . like, I want him. I want him now, so much and I never did before. I just wanted to hold his hand and call him pretty but now I want to fucking—”

Phil didn’t want to cry in front of Cat about this, but it was so suffocating. These feelings had been kept in between his ribs for so long and now they were coming out with every fast-paced thud of his heart. He couldn’t conceal them. It was like puncturing a hole in a balloon.

“It’s okay,” Cat whispered. “Say it. Get it all out.”

“I want to just drown him in love. I want him to know that I’m here and I’ll always be here and that I understand it’s complicated but I can do complicated. I can do anything for him.”

“You need to talk to him,” she rubbed his arm, action supportive.

“I can’t. It would fuck everything up if he found out I liked him in that way.”

“Babe,” Cat slowed. “I bet you everything I’ve ever had that he already knows. And I bet you everything I’ve never that he feels the same.”

“He doesn’t. Trust me, he doesn’t.”

“Trust _me_ , he does. There’s obviously a lot I don’t know about him but if I had to guess, he’s just struggling with it. He’s Dan Howell. He’s got this reputation, he can’t like his brother—or the guy everyone thinks is his brother. He can’t like any guy. It’s a massive deal to him, too.”

“How do I talk to him, though? Do I just tell him I like him?” Phil ran his hands over his head. “My God, I don’t know what to do. We live under the same fucking roof and I can’t have him push me away again, I can’t suffer through that.”

“Do you really sleep in the same bed?” Cat asked, under her breath.

Phil nodded his head. “Is that weird?”

“That you aren’t together? Yes, Phil, it’s weird.”

><

Cat left not long before Elise arrived home. Phil got through an entire bag of cough drops and managed to eat a round of toast before he went to bed that night. He insisted he would be just fine for school tomorrow, even if he knew it meant dragging himself through six hours of torture. He didn’t want to miss anymore time and, since Cat knew about his little ‘problem’, he could talk to her about it.

He decided against informing Dan of the conversation when they curled together that night. Dan was just showering him in affection—had been rather subtly since he walked through the damn door—and now they were alone in the dark, he wasn’t holding back what he had been before.

“I want you to feel okay,” he mumbled into Phil’s ear, reaching up and kissing his temple. “I don’t want you to hurt anywhere.”

“Neither do I,” Phil replied, hand on his back. He felt so wanted there, so much more than he’d felt all day.

He pulled back and nudged their faces together, mumbling the words out as he pressed a tender (and unsure) kiss to the side of his jaw. “Can I do anything for you?”

“I don’t know,” Phil whispered, eyes closed. “You could do that again, baby.”

“What?” Dan muttered, with another kiss to his face. “You like my kisses?”

“They’re alright. Make me feel a little better.”

“Well, I’m glad,” Dan put his hands on Phil’s shoulders and kissed him again. His mouth felt so fucking good there on Phil’s skin, the feeling was blissful and magnificent.

“How was your day?” Phil managed to get out. “Anything interesting happen?”

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?” Phil echoed.

“Well, I don’t know if you’d really count it as interesting but it was sort-of a big step for me. Maybe. I don’t know, I’m probably just exaggerating it.”

“What happened?”

“I think you might be proud of me.”

Phil smiled at him. “I’m already proud of you. Always proud of you. What is it? Did you do something?”

“There’s this kid in my English class, Harry Ester, and he’s always getting picked-on. By Tanner, by a bunch of other guys, by . . . me. He’s sort-of secluded and non-confrontational. Not weak, just doesn’t like it. I think he could smash my fucking face in if he decided he wanted to,” Dan paused. “Anyway, these guys were taking the piss out of him in English today. He sits behind me so I heard everything and I think maybe they all expected me to get involved. But I just offered him the seat next to me. I felt bad a bit—it was the first time in a long time that I felt anything for anybody like that—and I wanted to get him away from it all. The guys wouldn’t say a word to him if he was next to me, I knew that, and they didn’t.”

“So he sat with you?” Phil waited for Dan’s nod of confirmation. “That’s really great, lovely. I’m proud of you for doing that. Did you talk to him and stuff?”

“Yeah. It was awkward at first because we’re, like, so different and it was hard to find anything to talk about. Turns out we’ve both read a lot of the same books," Dan laughed a little. “And it was great talking about that. You know, something I’m really comfortable with. Something other than drugs and girls and football. I felt like myself there with him and it probably had nothing to do with him, just what we were saying. He had no interest in any of the things I’m supposed to be interested in and that was such a relief—He made me feel like you do.”

Phil ran his hand down Dan’s arm, covered by a long sleeve. “And how do I make you feel?”

“Like, who I’m supposed to be.”

“But you’re comfortable with who you are now. Nobody can tell you who to be, Dan. It doesn’t matter if you’re not who you’re supposed to be, only if you’re comfortable and content.”

“I don’t think me being content has anything to do with it.”

“Don’t you like who you are now?” Phil asked with a frown. “Or, at least, prefer it? You’re content with yourself, aren’t you?”

“No, everybody else either is or isn’t and that defines me.”

_He’s Dan Howell. He’s got this reputation._

Phil considered that for a moment with Cat’s voice playing commentary in the background and he understood. He couldn’t give Dan anything to make this go away, so he didn’t even try. He just listened because that was enough, that would always be enough. It had never not been.

Dan rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. “I’m having some sort-of identity crisis, Phil. I don’t know who I am. And I don’t even know if it’s justifiable either because I’m a fucking _teenager_ and it’s impossible to try and claim anything, let alone maintain it. Nothing’s real when you’re a teenager apparently. Sadness isn’t sadness and happiness isn’t happiness. There are changes in hormones and development and all that shit—Like, I know that. I get that. But I can’t say anything without getting it thrown back in my face. There’s something seriously wrong with me and I can’t say anything because I’m a teenager.”

“Not even just that,” Phil mumbled. “You’re Dan Howell.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Dan turned back. “You really get it, you know? If everybody in the world was like you, it wouldn’t be hard to find somebody who makes you feel special.”

Phil’s heart was inking down the compliment, as if to remember it. He smiled adoringly at Dan and asked, “What’s wrong with the world now?”

“God,” Dan breathed. “Do you want to get me started?”

“Yeah, go on. Talk to me. Your voice makes my head better.”

“I don’t see how that works, darling, but okay,” Dan inhaled and closed his eyes. “One of the best quotes I’ve ever heard was by this philosopher called Friedrich Nietzsche. I’m not even trying to be pretentious here, I just fucking love it. It’s: “Those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” I read it so, so long ago and I’ve just never forgotten it. Remember it word for word, I do.”

 _Those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music_.

“And what does that mean? The significance?” Phil wondered aloud, wanting to enclose the words in a glass jar and keep it on his bedside table to admire forever.

“Think about it figuratively,” Dan said. “People are doing something because they feel something other people don’t. Somebody sees a group of people dancing to no music and wonder what the fuck’s up with them. Music is a necessity to dancing but these people are weird because there’s no music, yet they’re there dancing. I could be wrong about anybody else, but the way I see it is that people never understand anything. In this metaphor, these people hear the music and they’re reacting to it. Creating something out of it. What we feel is the music, Phil. Nobody could ever understand what we feel. The way one person dances is different to the way another person dances, therefore the music they hear is not the same. There’s no way of knowing that what I hear when we listen to music is the same as what you do. The same with thoughts. If you and I were to both feel sadness, for example, we would act on that sadness in a different way. We would dance differently. Some people, however, don’t feel sadness at all. So they don’t understand why people dance because they don't feel anything. And that’s what wrong with the world. Do you understand? People are so fucking confused by other people because one thing to one person is not one thing to another and that’s such a complicated thing for the human mind. It gets even worse when you take into account the fact that some people don’t even have that one thing in the first place.”

Phil’s silence after the words—even if just stunned—led Dan to continue.

“If it’s shit like hate-crime or terrorism, a group of people feel something and act on it and everybody else is there calling them insane because they don’t feel it. They don’t hear any music, Phil. And that’s not to justify that it’s okay, it’s to justify that the world is a terrible, terrible place. You know why? Because so many people don’t even know that the music exists.”

“You mean, they don’t think there’s a motive?”

“Sort-of. Just that they don’t understand something happens because of something else. Life is, like, this sequence and everything is fucked up because nobody understands that one thing has to come before another in a sequence. When people hurt other people, they feel something. But then everybody calls it a tragedy and they build higher security and try to mimic the dances, the way these people reacted. Sort-of, like, two wrongs trying to make a right. It’s stupid, though, because people who dance are exactly the same as people who don’t. And yet everybody tries to protect us from the way they’re reacting to the music,” Dan stared up at the ceiling and shook his head. “Nobody understands that the easiest way to solve the problem is just to change the song. That’s what’s really wrong with the world, Phil.”

Phil found it hard to comprehend how he’d never calculated Dan’s intellect. This boy was wise, so wise and so insightful. Phil, honestly and truly, believed Dan’s mind to be important. A hidden treasure, of sorts. Although nobody knew of its quality, it was there and burning and, for what felt like the first time, Phil had some trace of hope for him. He couldn’t define the hope for what it was worth at all, but he knew he felt something different as he lay there with Dan.

The words had gushed out of him in such a compelling way. Nothing Dan had ever said had grasped Phil’s attention more; it squeezed down on it and choked it.

“I don’t make a lot of sense when I talk about something intense like that,” Dan attached quietly, almost unsure at Phil’s silence. “My passion gets in the way.”

“No, it’s—” Phil put his hand against Dan’s face. “That was so beautiful, what you just said. Really, Dan, so beautiful.”

“Yeah? You think?”

“I know. You’re so good with words,” Phil reiterated. “You should write a book or something.”

“I don’t know about that. I don’t think I have the commitment.”

Phil smiled, weakly. “You’d find it. As you went along. My uncle used to write short stories and he always said that you only knew where you wanted to go when you were going there.”

“You loved that geezer,” Dan joked, and Phil laughed once so hard that his hand jolted to his head. Dan touched his temple and smiled. “You never spoke to him again after the orphanage, did you? Your uncle.”

Phil shook his head. “As I grew up, the pain of it all just decreased. Time doesn’t heal all wounds but it sure does heal the ones that aren’t permanent."

“Hhm," Dan shuffled closer to Phil and laid his head against his shoulder. “I’m glad that wound healed for you, darling.”

“I hope your wounds heal, too,” Phil rested his hand against Dan’s hair and moved his fingers slowly, muttering a repeat of, “Those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.”

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Dan gaped up, propping his elbows on Phil’s chest. He was so frail, always smelt of smoke and coconuts and the cold. Home.

“I like your interpretation the most.”

“You just like hearing me talk.”

“Yeah, I do. Your words and your voice are gorgeous.”

Dan nudged the side of his face with Phil’s and whispered, “Stop swooning. You sound like an idiot.”

Phil smiled at him. “Shut up, you love it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The significance of putting a bunch of books and songs in this is that they all link. They’re all almost extensions of the ideas etc. presented in this story. If you listen to each or read each, you’ll find some attachment lol.
> 
> Also, what changed between D+P in this chapter? (Apart from the ‘baby’ thing which hurt me to write cause Dan is literally like my baby in this fic)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Let me know what you thought <3


	17. XVII

**XVII**

In the morning, Phil’s headache had improved. The charges of pain were beginning to soften and the bursts came less frequent. He decided he was fine to go to school and he and Dan went their separate ways at the end of the gate bordering their pristine home.

Phil had a yearn to see Cat and talk to her about the minor developments in Dan’s area, but he didn’t have chance to do that until lunch. The period before, however, he had Chris. Math.

“Fuck this lesson,” Chris scratched a line through a mistake in his book. “Fuck it with a sledgehammer.”

“Since when are you trusted with a sledgehammer?”

“Since I started using it on equations.”

“Right,” Phil chuckled, reaching across to steal Chris’ paper. “What question are you even on? How many have you missed?”

“Man, I don’t know. There’s only ten.”

“You’ve answered one and two,” Phil smiled. “And two’s wrong.”

“Fuck off, Phil. We’ve not all got a brain like you.”

“My brain isn’t a whole lot better than yours, you know? Metaphorically, I’ve just trained it.”

“Yeah, and metaphorically your brain is Usain Bolt and mine is that fat guy at the end of my street.”

Phil laughed, and shook his head. “Do you want to copy my answers?”

“Is that how I improve?”

“Do you want to improve?"

“No, that’s why I asked.”

The remainder of the lesson rolled through a smog of confusion and sarcastic remarks, before Chris and Phil met Cat at their usual spot on the end of a table for lunch. She wrapped her arm around Phil’s shoulders when he sat down and squeezed him tight. For a second, he expected her to disclose everything—open the compartments of the air the secrets were concealed in.

But she only offered a smile and a, “How was last lesson?”

Phil glanced to Chris. “Think you should answer that.”

“But my answer would be _incorrect_ , Phil.”

Phil’s lips lifted in a grin and he turned back to Cat at his side. “How was your lesson?”

“Alright, yeah. I sat by Harry Ester.”

“Harry Ester?” Phil echoed. Motherfucker, there he was again.

“Yeah, you know him. Maybe. He’s got curly, blonde hair and glasses and there’s always some twat picking on him.”

“I know him,” Phil smiled. “His name keeps coming up a lot is all.”

“Oh?” Cat’s eyebrows raised. There was a trace of recognition concealed in her eye, smudged away behind public perception.

Phil shrugged and looked down. “I heard he was—”

“Phil.”

Phil peered up at the press of his name and a slam of a hand against the table. Dan was stood there alone at the end, staring at him. Cat shifted in her seat and Phil’s wouldn’t even stutter over to her. She’d probably have been smiling like a mother before a kid’s first date.

“What the fuck do you want, Dan?” Chris snapped at him. “Just because he went to that college with you, doesn’t mean he likes you.”

“Was I fucking talking to you?” Dan growled back.

Phil nudged his shoulder. “What’s up?”

“I need a favour,” he reached into his pocket and put a crumpled piece of paper on the table.

Phil frowned and gestured to it. “And that is?”

“Homework. Physics. Can you do it for me?”

“For, what?” Chris pressed, tone irate. Had Phil been anywhere else, he’d have taken the damn homework and done right that second. Anything Dan asked him to, really. But he had to maintain this act, even if now just for Chris (Cat, too, in Dan’s eyes) and demand something in return.

He told himself that whatever Dan gave him, he would just give back when they got home. And it was okay to hug him down onto his bed, arms squeezing his thin waist and—

“For, like, a tenner,” Dan shrugged.

Chris folded his arms. “Where is it?”

“I’ll get it to you tomorrow.”

“Bullshit,” Chris called and reached for the homework. He unfolded it and snorted, sliding it back under Phil’s nose. “Read the name, mate.”

 _Tanner_ was messily jotted on top of the sheet.

Phil glanced up with unsure eyes and Dan rubbed his hands over his face. “Chris, fuck’s sake—Why do you have to get involved? I was talking to Phil.”

“He’d have seen the name when he opened it, Dan,” Cat chirped. “He’s a smart guy, I thought you knew that.”

“Just do it for him, Phil. I said I’d get you to do it for next lesson if he bought me a packet of cigarettes. He’s giving me the money tomorrow for you and I’ll hand it right over, I swear.”

Phil didn’t like this at all, but what he hated was that his answer would have been different had the situation have been. If Chris wasn’t present, or something like that.

“Dan, I don’t want to do Tanner’s homework."

“Please,” Dan’s eyes were idle over his. ”Phil, just fucking do it. It’ll take you two minutes.”

“Get the hell away from us, Dan,” Chris balled the paper back up and brushed it off the edge of the table.

“You better shut your fucking mouth,” Dan snapped. “Learn which battles are yours to fight, asshole.”

“Dan,” Phil barely mumbled. “Come on, don’t talk to him like that.”

“Are you serious?” Dan slammed his fist down on the table and seethed at Phil. All his anger was spurting from Tanner, he knew that, splitting at the ends. He was desperate. “I want you to do one fucking thing for me and you’re too caught up in your own bullshit to even—”

“He does a lot for you, Dan,” Cat’s voice floated in to anchor Dan’s rage. Phil turned to give her a glare that he hoped had the potential to silence her but she didn’t so much as glance at him. “He’s there for you when you need him so just watch your tone.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Chris’ attention was darting between Cat and Phil.

“Yeah,” Dan’s teeth were gritted in a strong denial. His face said _this can’t be happening, you can’t have told_. “What are you talking about?”

Cat raised her eyebrows. “You know very well what I’m talking about. Don’t talk to him like he’s nothing when he’s there to support you and care for you with whatever the fuck you keep needing him for—He’s there to hold you and lay with you and—”

“Fuck you,” Dan spat, but it was impossible to tell whether it was intended to reach Cat or Phil. There was a fury on his face that Phil had never seen before; it was like this concoction of displeasure and panic, a rage that was telling him he had to stay and fight this out and a fear that was telling him he had to get out of there as fast as he could. He went for the second option after he tried to move his mouth but the words dissolved on his tongue.

“Dan!” Phil leaned down and grabbed his bag from under the desk, bolting up after him.

“Phil—” Cat tried to grab his arm.

“Don’t, Cat,” Phil pushed her off. “That was so wrong, what you just did.”

He turned and ran after Dan, forcing himself through the crowds of familiar and unfamiliar faces and out of the door onto the field.

“Dan, just let me talk to you!” Phil yelled after the boy as they raced down towards the bike sheds. Dan was a silhouette moving down the path and skirting around the bike sheds. There was a trace of forgotten promises in the location.

Dan stopped to catch his breath just behind the sheds and, turning to find Phil, forced himself forward and shoved his chest. Phil stumbled backwards over his heels and caught his arm on a bush.

“Fuck, okay,” he glanced at the faint cut on his skin. “Alright, I deserved that.”

“Yeah, you fucking did,” Dan’s voice was trembling with emotion, shattering in all the places it was supposed to be strong. Phil felt Dan’s terror right down to his core as he pushed two shaking hands on his chest and shoved him back again. “How the fuck could you do that, Phil? How could you do that to me?”

“I’m sorry, Dan—”

“Fuck _off_ with that!” Dan’s voice cracked. “You took advantage of me, you let her use my pain to attack me!”

“I didn’t tell her everything, I swear, I only told her that something changed between us and now we’re closer and you let me—” Phil got all choked up at the way Dan was looking at him. There was a mask suffocating his usual affection.

“I let you, what?” Dan took a dangerous step closer.

“You let me . . . be there for you.”

“What the fuck did you tell her, Phil? That I let you touch me? That we have some sort-of gay fucking love affair going on here?” Dan’s laugh took all the air from Phil’s lungs and locked it away in a glass container, so he could see but not reach it. Phil was too winded to defend himself when Dan’s fist came and connected with his jaw in a violent punch to the side of his face.

The same place he’d kissed, the same place his fingers had smeared devotion.

“Dan!” Phil clutched the side of his face as a rupture of pain exploded and began to spread like a crack through glass along his face. He moved his hand and there was blood on his palm.

“You’re fucked in the head!” Dan shouted at him. Phil keeled over and continued tending to the blood on his face. “How fucking dare you think it’s okay to call me baby with the same voice you told the world about my vulnerability! How fucking dare you think it’s okay to chase me back here like you own my fucking ass, you absolute piece of _shit_! Look at me! Hey, look at me—”

Phil jolted his attention up and Dan landed another punch across his jaw. “Never fucking touch me again!” he pushed on Phil’s shoulders. Phil stumbled back onto the grass and tried to get something out, something half coherent, but the physical and mental strain of agony was bubbling in the back of his throat and preventing any sound. It squeezed down on his voice and choked him.

Dan rushed down to roughly fist Phil’s shirt and put weight down on his heavy chest. “What did you tell her?” he spat at Phil. “Tell me exactly what you told her or I swear to fucking God, Phil, I’ll call Tanner out here to kick the shit out you—”

“No, you won’t,” Phil managed, bloody hands gripping on Dan’s jacket in an attempt to force him off. “There’s no way you could stand there and let him hurt me.”

“Tell me what you told her!”

“I told you! I already told you!” Phil gagged out the words as Dan forced more pressure onto his windpipe. His teeth were gritted and his eyes chaotic and this wasn’t Dan, this wasn’t the boy Phil knew.

“Exactly, Phil! Tell me exactly what you said—Was it some bullshit fantasy of yours?” The words forced themselves under Phil’s skin. “Did you tell her we fuck or something? That you’re, like, my dirty little secret?”

“Dan, you’re out of your fucking mind,” Phil shoved Dan off him with a momentary eruption of energy and he stumbled over his balance.

“ _I’m_ out of my mind? Me? Chris hates me, Phil, and he’s gonna scream it down the hallways that I’m gay because Cat couldn’t keep her fucking mouth shut and neither could you!"

“Neither could you!” Phil yelled back at him. “You had to go and tell me everything about your parents and your past and you—You had to come over today and cause a scene just because I wasn’t gonna do some asshole’s homework for you! You had to drag me to Manchester and you had to start with the bullshit nicknames and you had to make me risk my relationship with my friends because I had to do everything on your terms! It’s always on your terms, when is it ever about me? When has it ever been about me?”

“It’s always about you!”

“No, fuck off—” Phil choked. “It’s never about me! The only reason I even moved to fucking Scotland with Bernie and Elise was because _you_ wanted me to!”

“Bullshit did I want you to! That was your decision!” Dan yelled. “I’ve never made you do anything!”

“Seriously, Dan?” Phil laughed over the words, maybe. It was a laugh divided by a slight break, a slight fault in the structure coloured by suffering. “Do you want to go there? Do you want to talk about everything you’ve fucking given me to carry around?”

“I fucking _dare_ you—” Dan spat, and it was the hardest thing he’d ever said. “—to make my father abusing me about _you_.”

Phil felt like there were hands around his neck, like the air was moving in thick fragments down his throat to clump together and kill him. “I wasn’t going to,” he wanted to cry. “I wasn’t going to do that, how could you think I would? I just wanted to tell my friend about us because I needed somebody to confide in and I thought I could trust her—”

“You were wrong—”

“I was wrong about you, too,” Phil’s voice contracted around the words.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Dan sat up on the grass. “You were wrong about what? Me being your baby? Your ticket to sexual heaven? Yeah, you fucking were!”

“I don’t think about you like that!” Phil’s heart ached. “I don’t look at you and think about that, Dan, that’s sick! I care for you so much—I care for you so much more than you would ever allow yourself to comprehend—and I would do absolutely anything for you, providing it made you happy for half a goddamn second! You punched me twice in the face and I haven’t even hit back because the thought of hurting you makes me want to _vomit_ —”

“You couldn’t hit me even if you wanted to,” Dan pushed himself up to his knees on the mud and loomed over Phil. “If you ever try and so much as come near me ever again, I’ll breaking your fucking nose.”

“Oh, yeah, and I’m supposed to just forget about you? Forget what we’ve made for ourselves out of a couple shitty parents and a terrible orphanage—” 

“Shut up, Phil!” Dan twisted his hands into his hair and stepped back. His face was red and hot with anger. “Yes, you’re supposed to forget that! You’re supposed to forget all of it! And you can work on not wanting to fuck me, too, because I’m not _gay_!”

“I don’t want to fuck you! It makes me sick to my stomach to think that you honestly believe that’s all I want from you! That I’ve held you when you’ve cried because I want to have sex with you? Is that all you think I see when I look at you?”

“You ruined us! You ruined that trust we had, that trust it took fucking years to build! That trust that means everything to me!”

Phil’s body ached as he heaved himself up and hugged his arms to his chest, coughing out his pain. There was a smear of blood on Dan’s shirt from where he’d touched Phil and blood all over Phil’s hands.

“Promise me you won’t try, Phil,” Dan barked at him. “Promise me you won’t ever try to make this okay.”

Phil didn’t say anything.

“Phil,” Dan fell back down onto the grass and clenched his hands around Phil’s collar. “I said promise me.”

“I,” Phil paused to stifle the sob clattering up his throat. “Promise. I promise.”

Phil couldn’t look up to Dan’s eyes, he couldn’t know this was Dan Howell. Instead, he remained focused on the way his sleeves were riding up his arms at the pressure of his grip on Phil and—And his scars were there, still as deep and as permanent on his thinner, more tanned skin. But there was something else, too. Little red lines—cuts—marked on his wrists like he’d tried to break the skin open.

Dan knew he’d seen them. Phil knew that Dan knew that he’d seen them. He yanked his sleeves back down and bolted up, taking large steps back as he demanded out the words, “We’re done. This is it. No more. Never again.”

And then Dan turned and he raced out of the way they’d gone together just a few days ago, the memory of their linked fingers playing back like a mockery of broken chains.

><

On the first day, they didn’t talk. The silence wasn’t calm or even the opposite, it wasn’t something that was welcome to definition. It was horrible and it was choking. It was like walking through smoke, that kind that was thick and black and merciless on the existing. Phil had had to come somewhat clean to Bernie and Elise about the bruise on his face because it had a tendency of brushing against attention. He told them he’d had a fight but not who with and that had been the only time he’d spoken that first day. Said conversation buzzed and beeped to attention in the graph recalling all the hours because it was the only time he’d opened his mouth, the only time he’d managed to speak through the fog. He didn’t go to school and he didn’t charge his phone when it died, but he stayed downstairs because Dan was refusing to go to school too.

And he hadn’t moved from his bed since Phil had got home after the fight and found him laying there.

On the second day, he went back to school, and Chris and Cat had the nerve to come over to him and question the bruise on his face. He slammed his fucking locker and left them to stand there and it felt so good. Felt like a relief, like a _fuck you for ruining this for me._ He took longer than usual to walk home because he didn’t want to get to where he was going. Dan was still laying in his bed and the curtains were still drawn and his earphones were still in, sheets still over his head. He didn’t so much as flinch at Phil’s entrance, or his exit.

On the third and fourth day, Phil continued to ignore Chris and Cat. Chris texted him on multiple occasions saying Cat was incredibly apologetic but that he’d done nothing wrong, and just wanted to talk. And as much as that was probably true, Phil couldn’t look at him the same. Not knowing that he most likely knew everything Cat did. So Phil just ignored and they just tried and when he got home, the roles were reversed. Although, he didn’t try on the third and fourth day. He just sat on the edge of his bed and watched Dan’s still body, shooting up to attention when he got up to go the bathroom. The boy didn’t so much as notice Phil when he entered and tumbled back under his sheets.

On the fifth day, Phil woke to Elise trying to get Dan up for school. He was shaking his head and pushing her hand away and it resulted in Elise’s defeat and Dan’s, too. He was laying there facing the window when Phil left for school. The day consisted of _ignore, deny, ignore, deny_. It had been like that for five days. When he got back, Dan was in the same long shirt and baggy bottoms and he was facing the ceiling. The nights were the worst, Phil realised on the fifth day, because it felt like they were facing an old fate. Something from the past, coming back to haunt them.

On the sixth day, he searched the word ‘depression’ and then ‘symptoms’ right after. Fatigue. Hopelessness. Anger. Insomnia. Self-harm. Loss of interest. Emptiness. On the sixth day, Phil wanted to ask Dan if he was empty. He wanted to ask it him and not attach without me to the end but he didn’t know if he could do that. Not even if he was allowed, just if he could get the words farther than where they were sleeping at the back of his throat. He didn’t think he had the energy to do so much as wake them. On the sixth day, that’s where everything sat, at the back of his throat. His guilt. His craving. His misery. He’d developed a routine by the sixth day (ignore, deny, ignore, deny) and he wasn’t programmed to fail in its continuation. He also wasn’t programmed to dare ask Dan if he, too, thought he had depression. If he could feel something growing inside of him, building a home with evolved fingers of brick and stone, and if it was hurting. If there was a pressure on his chest; if he’d find imprints against the skin, should he lift his shirt. On the sixth day, Phil said nothing. And neither did Dan. And they pretended like the silence was better than the words, even if the words ached.

They pretended, even though one of them hated it. The other was starting to, too.

On the seventh day, Tanner came over to Phil at school and asked where Dan was. He said he hadn’t been answering his phone and hadn’t showed up at school for the past week.

“It’s getting fucking ridiculous now,” Tanner had said. “What the hell’s up with him? Is he out of the damn country or something?”

“It’s really not my place to say, Tanner,” Phil dismissed and tried to slide past him.

“Hey,” Tanner shoved his shoulder. “Where did you get that bruise on your cheek? Did he hit you?”

“No.”

“Dude—”

“Don’t call me dude. I’m not your friend just because you want to know something,” Phil moved out of his way again. “He’s still in the house. If you want to see him so much, come find him.”

And that was that. On the seventh day, everything just _was_. Phil didn’t care enough to think and overthink, didn’t care enough to consider acting on impulses. On the seventh day, he existed alongside somebody who it seemed wasn’t existing at all, and he entertained his mind with thoughts of nothing but the art in his yellow pad. He’d finished his previous drawing and the seventh day marked the start of another—of a skeletal frame dancing to a confused audience. He stayed up three hours longer than usual sketching it, bedside lamp illuminating the darkness coming from Dan’s side of the room.

It was a terrible metaphor. Really, it was.

On the eighth day, Phil’s heart started to feel heavy. He noticed it immediately upon waking up; it was like somebody had reached down his throat and implanted a weight where the organ was supposed to sit. Dan was sat on the edge of his bed and drumming his fingers against his knees, other hand tight in his matted hair. Phil moved silently with his attention struggling to remain fixed on Dan and tried to see anything but a fading, artistic representation of defeat. Phil sneaked a look at him when he passed and found that his body was still and his eyes were focused on the wall, but the colour in them was quivering. It was like looking at an illusion, like looking at a picture of the ocean. From a distance, the waves were still. But the closer you were, the harder you looked, the more they rippled. Phil stood there in the doorway for a minute or two but Dan’s eyes didn’t falter from their place, didn’t flicker to him once. Not a muscle in his face so much as twitched. And it wasn’t even that he was composed because, on the eighth day, he was just a clutter of wrongs and rights and loose ends that had fizzled because they’d lost the piece of string tying them together. Phil’s head droned, “You are _chaos_ ,” and the weight in replacement of his heart bled the words out so they soaked up onto his skin.

On the eighth day, there was nothing but a load that dragged down their shoulders and slowed the actions of their feet. Or, rather, Phil’s feet. Since Dan failed to show up at school again, failed to so much as get out of his bed. Cat approached Phil at his locker and got out only a, “Please, can we just talk this out?” before he was pushing past her, head down. The hope in her tone correlated horrifically with the disappointment smudged across his skin, all blotching in with the discolouration over his cheek. When he wasn’t beside Dan, he was a mess. But when he was, he couldn’t compare.

Nothing could.

On the ninth day, Phil started noticing the trays on the floor beside Dan’s bed where he just continued to lay; day-in, day-out. It was probably ironic that Elise was making enough of an effort to provide him with breakfast, lunch and dinner, even if he didn’t eat any more than a couple bites. Sometimes none at all. Between homework and his latest art piece, Phil sat and took note of Dan’s behaviour. And he researched condition after condition on his phone’s terrible service, comparing the list of symptoms with the still—so still but so frantic—boy.

Major Affective Disorder. Depersonalisation. Body Dysmorphic Disorder. It was all too much. Too many names, too many psychological terms. Phil didn’t understand them and, as much as he was trying, it all just blurred in a haze of _I am so fucking sorry._

On the tenth day, Phil’s hand was “all fixed” but his heart wasn’t as it started to wonder what he’d done to deserve this. And then he realised that, maybe, it wasn’t even him. It wasn’t even what had happened. Dan had disconnected himself from Phil, but he disconnected himself in the first place because of the clutter in his head. The same clutter that had always been there, the same pain that had fed off the remnants left by his unfortunate soul. It was almost as though he’d wanted to just exist like this his entire life—to live with no expectations or regrets or responsibilities. That wasn’t an unkind assumption either, it was just Dan.

On the tenth day, Phil realised being just Dan meant being just sad and he’d waited his entire life to let go like this. Phil started inking colour between the lines of his sketch but quickly came to the conclusion that it didn’t need any colour.

Things could often do just fine without.

On the eleventh day, Dan had a nightmare. The only reason he hadn’t been suffering from night terrors before this day was because he'd hardly slept and whenever he did, he’d gone so long without sleep that his body couldn’t function without it. So even if he was having nightmares, he’d sleep right through. Phil knew all of this on the basis of analysis. The smudges beneath Dan’s eyes grew from purple to black and his hair was tearing with frustration at the ends. He looked like somebody had injected him and drained him of everything, both good and bad. There was nothing in him, and he therefore had nothing to give.

The nightmare came deep into the night, with a shout and a mewl and a cry for help. Phil bolted up in his bed in a synchronisation with Dan and—even though the darkness was pooling into their tired eyes—there was a moment when they could see everything clearly, everything as it was. Phil couldn’t even ask him if he was okay because he’d made a promise, for God’s sake, and so he lay there listening to Dan choking soft sobs into his pillow. Phil scrawled _those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music_ onto the corner of his drawing and named the dancing, skeletal figure after his favourite person in the world.

Dan didn’t eat anything on the eleventh day. He sat there with his back to the world and his attention out of the window and chain-smoked Lord knows how many cigarettes.

On the eleventh day, it all got so suffocating that Bernie and Elise turned to Phil for help, for advice on what to do because he and Dan were around a similar age and maybe he just understood more about what was going on. Maybe he could talk to him, they said, but he denied it. He said Dan would come around when he was ready and he wondered if they missed him, too.

The twelfth day was the worst. It wasn’t anymore painful than the previous eleven had been, not really, but Dan wasn’t in his bed when Phil woke up. Neither Bernie or Elise had seen him and his jacket and shoes were missing. Phil cried in the shower before school and turned away from his reflection in the mirror when his fist clenched to shatter the glass. Abi came, on the twelfth night, rapping her manicured nails against the wood of the door and demanding for Dan.

“I don’t know where he is,” Phil weakly insisted. “Honestly, Abi, I have no idea. He was gone when we woke up this morning. I haven’t seen him since last night.”

“But he was okay until that point?” she was giddy on her feet.

“Not exactly what I’d call okay,” Phil sighed. “But, yeah, he was . . . existing.”

“Why didn’t he answer my goddamn calls then? Twelve days, Phil! Twelve days, Tanner and I have been trying to figure this out! He hasn’t been at school, he hasn’t answered his phone, he hasn’t been out—”

“You could have just come here.”

“Bernie and Elise hate us and so do you,” Abi scoffed. “Like hell would you let us in to see him. Is this the first time he’s left the house? What’s wrong with him? What’s happened?”

Phil licked his cracked lips. “I don’t know if he’s left whilst I’ve been at school, probably not. He’s not well, Abi.”

“What do you mean _not well_?”

“He’s . . . sick. You need to just be there for him, okay, because he’s not gonna be able to do this by himself—”

“He’s done it by himself for twelve days.”

“He’s done it by himself for sixteen years,” Phil corrected with a sudden strength. He had no right defending him, he knew that. But he did it anyway because he’d spent his entire life, it felt like, doing shit anyway. Abi told Phil she was going to look for him down at the park and departed with a final, “You look sort-of sick yourself.”

Phil sat there for hours twiddling his fucking thumbs and feeling like everything he refused to believe he was. Dan wandered in with wet hair and a slouch to his shoulders nearing on towards midnight. His eyes glanced to Phil for one second— _you stayed up for me_ —and then back to the floor. He shrugged his jacket off and climbed under his sheets in jeans and a loose shirt.

Phil wondered if his arms looked the same as they did when he’d seen them twelve days ago.

He decided it was the worst thought he’d ever had.

On the thirteenth day, Dan locked himself in the bathroom for four hours. Phil sat with his back against the door and listened to Dan cry and that, that felt like coming home. He considered pushing his drawing under the door to him but he wouldn't let himself do it. Dan’s heart needed time to bleed and so it was.

On the fourteenth day, it had been two weeks. Two weeks since they had spoken, two weeks since the fight, two weeks since Phil had seen the lines of self-inflicted pain on Dan’s wrists, two weeks since he’d had a conversation with Chris and Cat, two weeks since the world had become such a dreadful place. It had always been dreadful, but these fourteen days had been horrific. They were _empty_ And Phil was just so accustomed to sorrowful.

Phil’s mind was entertained with thoughts of a boy too sad to continue with his life, too sad to get up for anything but a packet of fucking cigarettes. There wasn’t even any beauty in Dan’s pain anymore—Not that there had ever been, but Phil had tried so hard to make it gorgeous. To ink pretty, poetic words around the dancing skeletal frame so that it wasn’t everything that it was. And it was such a strange thing, to be nothing. Because that meant being nothing was being everything and being nothing is supposed to mean you have nothing, too, but how can you have nothing if you have nothing?

How can you have nothing if being nothing is being _something_?

On the fourteenth day, Phil thought a lot about time and a lot about how he couldn’t voice his thoughts so that they’d collide with that empty space ringing out _I miss you_ shamefully louder than _I’m sorry_. On the fourteenth day, Phil thought _I miss you_. And “Wonderwall” entertained the hours in which he should’ve been sleeping.

On the fifteenth day, Phil did something. Dan had, for the past few days, invested himself into scrawling words down on a little notebook. Sheets balled around him, lamp lit through the darkness of rainy afternoons. When he silently moved out of the room on the fifteenth day, Phil headed over to where he’d left the messy book on his sheets. He slipped the drawing from his yellow pad in between two pages overspilling with Dan’s handwriting. He didn’t want to look, didn’t want to intrude, but he caught _I don’t know anything_ at the bottom of the page. He left it there and went back to his own side of the room.

On the fifteenth day, Phil sneaked glances over to Dan frantically writing words down, mind fixed on whether or not he’d found the drawing. It seemed that he hadn’t, until Phil rearranged his sheets in the middle of the night and heard a piece of paper flutter and hit the floor. He squinted through the darkness and retrieved it, using his phone screen to light it up. It was the drawing. Dan had left it there on his bed, returned and like he hadn’t even touched it.

On the sixteenth day, it became apparent that there wasn’t anything Phil could do. He spent his time working on adding extra detail to the sketch (because maybe Dan would react to it, if it was just that bit better) and pretended the detail didn’t just make it look worse. Pretended that it wasn’t pointless to pretend, to act like he could ever do something to make this better. On the sixteen day, it wasn’t about him. It was about Dan. It had always been about Dan but . . . but this time it was about what he wanted. He wanted space, maybe, wanted peace. He wanted to hurt himself and have nobody there to watch him do it but the little demon on his shoulder who told him, “Do it again.”

On the sixteenth day, Phil’s acts of a pointless nature turned out to be of no such nature at all. As he sat there with his tongue in his cheek, looking at every angle of his drawing, he found two words jotted on the back.

_Background music._

Dan had written them. Phil recognised his handwriting for no other reason than that he'd seen it just yesterday. Beneath the two words, he responded with a small question mark. But it quickly became apparent that Dan wasn’t in the right expression towards him to give him the explanation he wanted. So, instead, Phil scribbled out the piece of punctuation and left the drawing on Dan’s bed again, facedown. On the sixteenth day, he hoped Dan got the message.

He assumed Dan was hoping the same.

On the seventeenth day, Dan wrote:

_Nothing matters._

And then:

_Don’t respond._

Phil followed the instruction. Dan continued to write little phrases and sentences all the way through the seventeenth day with no direct communication and they went a little something like:

_To exist or to not exist._

_We are what we think about._

_I keep having the worst day of my life._

_It hurts, it hurts, IT HURTS._

On the eighteenth day, Phil replied with a single word. A single word that had ached in the spaces between Dan’s bed and his, ached in the spaces between all the things he should have said and all the things he did. Ached in the silence of the bedroom, broken only by the soft sound of a desperate pen.

It was the eighteenth day when Phil wrote:

_Stay._

It was the eighteenth day when he wrote it under the frantic hand of a broken person and left it on his bed. And then he went right back and added:

_Do you want to talk?_

Dan didn’t give him anything back until the nineteenth day. Everything was cold and wet—it was a Sunday, maybe—and it had rained across the week, leaving but a puddle for the end to lay in. The curtains remained drawn in their bedroom through the morning and early afternoon (that was getting as comfortable as the silence) and Phil didn’t get up until one. He found the sheet of words on his bedside, under his glass of water. It seemed Dan had left it there and anchored it with six, small letters.

_Please._

Phil looked across to Dan’s empty bed and, like he’d missed his damn cue, heard the door click. A boy with a skeletal frame and messy hair to coordinate with messy eyes stood there with his back to the entrance. Phil had lost so much of him; not just emotionally but physically, too. He’d lost his smile and lost his hope (even if it was beaten) and lost his composure. It was like his skin had fallen away and his heart was just there, pegged to that bare area on the left side of his chest. Phil wanted to go to all the places Dan had been in the last nineteen days to gather all the pieces of him he probably didn’t even realise were missing.

Phil cleared his throat and scratched his neck and then patted the space on the end of his bed. Dan stared at the movement of his hand for longer than was allowed, before slowly creeping across the wooden flooring and setting himself down, quite a distance from Phil.

“Hey,” Phil breathed, hands in his lap. They were both facing the same way, feet on the floor and heads down.

Dan didn’t look up either. “Hey.”

It was impossible to describe the extent to which his voice had changed. It was hoarser, like somebody was doing an excellent job of chipping the surface. Phil figured it was down to its lack of use. And maybe all that crying because, even sitting there, his eyes were sore and blotchy. Aching with moisture and a pale red.

“You . . . ” Phil trailed, not comfortable with his voice amongst the silence. He tried again. “You wanted to talk?”

Dan curled the fraying edges of his sleeves and sniffed. “I don’t know what to say to you. Which is stupid because _you_ asked _me_ if I wanted to talk.”

“But you have nothing to say?” Phil whispered, unsure. He dared a look at the boy and quickly directed his attention away again when he was met with the same picture of chaos.

Dan’s voice tightened around emotion. “What is there to say?”

“What do you want, then?” Phil asked him softly. He looked over again and Dan’s eyes managed to jump to his chest, but no higher. ”Do you want me to talk for a bit? I could do that, if you wanted.”

“Yeah,” Dan sniffed and stared back to his feet. “Yeah, you talk. About anything, I don’t care.”

 _Anything_. Phil’s eyes shut for a moment as he collected information and carefully arranged it into place. “I read a book once. _Bridge to Terabithia._ We talk about books all the time—or, we used to—but this one stuck with me. It’s important to me. Leslie saved Jesse and, in turn, he kept her memory alive. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t save her like she’d saved him, it only mattered that he returned the favour. The book’s so good because it’s all about keeping your mind open and having an imagination. With an open mind, you can create anything. Those two developed a connection they never allowed anything but themselves to come between and they created their own world together. It’s stupid, but I always . . . I always thought they were kind-of like us when we were kids.”

Dan listened hard with flickering eyes. Faltering between intrigue and nostalgia. “How long have you wanted to say that?” he asked, carefully.

“Since you made me read it.”

Dan nodded with a slight smile and tapped his feet against the floor. He’d lost a lot of weight, Phil noticed, allowing his eyes to slow on Dan. They were still again. Still.

“Your drawing,” Dan sparked another conversation with caution.

“Oh. Yeah?”

“It was . . . me?”

“I think. It was inspired by you, at least.”

“I didn’t know I could inspire anything like that. It was really—” he looked so uncomfortable and it hurt so much. “—really, like, good. Yeah.”

“Dan,” Phil sighed, and the boy glanced up at him for half a second. “If this is too much, we can go back to not talking—”

“No, no,” Dan shook his head and chewed on his cracked lips. “It’s not that I want silence and it’s not even that I want this—whatever it is—between us. I don’t want to talk to you, Phil, if I’m being honest with you. I’ve told myself for the past nineteen days that I don’t want to and it’s been the truth. You really fucked it up for us, with the trust situation. But I think I sort-of need to talk you. You’re . . . how I express myself and I’ve been finding it really hard to do that lately. You listen to me. You know not to interrupt me. I’ve just really struggled without, like, without that understanding there. And I don’t want to be some fucking cliché or for you to think I’m weak or pathetic or—”

“I don’t.”

“No, it’s—You can’t walk over me. I don’t want people to think that. It’s such an awful trait to have. I’ve always wanted to say that I’m not a pushover and it’s fucking terrible because I know I am,” he rested his face in his hands. “I know I am.”

“I don’t think you are,” Phil’s fingers itched to touch him. “I think your mind’s just really muddled and it’s hard to know who you are when the thing you understand everything with is a little bit broken.”

Dan shook his head. “I hate the fact that I want to talk to you about how I’ve been feeling, but I want to.”

“You can hit me again, if you like,” Phil offered, faint. “If it makes you feel better, I did this.”

“No, you didn’t. Not all of it, at least. You started it and you ruined whatever trust we had between us but I’m responsible for most of it. All of it after that fight. I decided that we weren’t speaking and I decided that now, suddenly, we are and I decided not to eat and I decided not to go to school.”

“But you decided those things _because_ of me.”

“Maybe. Maybe just what you did,” Dan shuffled back and crossed his legs. Phil copied him begrudgingly so they were facing each other. “Can we talk about that? What happened with Cat? Not enough to fix it, just enough so I understand why.”

“Of course,” Phil paused. “Do you want me to, like, tell you how I told her?”

Dan nodded, slow and distant.

Phil cleared his throat. “It was the day I was off sick and I hadn’t replied to any of Cat’s texts. She came around and found the actual letter from the college offering me a tour. She started demanding answers—I mean, she literally had her hands around my damn throat. I just blurted that we’d gone to Manchester but refused to say why and something had happened that brought us closer. I didn’t—I’d never tell her about your parents. I’d never breathe a word to another person about that and you have every reason to not believe me now, but I just want you to know I’ve said it. I just tried to explain to Cat how things were between us and I probably explained it wrong but it’s all so complicated, you know? It’s hard to explain to somebody else what you and I both want, I guess.”

It wasn’t that Phil was trying to make it okay, he was just trying to explain. And he was learning so much about himself as he tried too, so much about his inability to eloquently express.

“You can talk, you know?” he added gently, growing uncomfortable at Dan’s silence. He was sitting with his hands in his lap, still cross-legged, and staring up at him through exhausted eyes. The word _madness_ was scrawled across his face.

“I was making sure you were finished,” Dan commented, voice so weakly respectful. “I definitely agree that it’s hard to explain to other people. Not that I’ve ever had or ever wanted to but I can’t imagine even trying. Cat had no right to demand anything of you, I don’t believe anybody does. I think maybe I was most angry about the fact that you'd given Cat a reason to humiliate me, even if it was unintentional. Humiliation is . . . I hate it. It’s the worst of the worst for me and it sounds ridiculous, I know it does, but I suppose I just value identity. It seems idiotic that I ignored you for nineteen days over that, but it isn’t idiotic to me. There’s a lot about me that’s fragile—my sense of self and mental stability—and it’s no excuse for treating people terribly but I’m just so tired, Phil. I’m so tired of everything and sometimes it’s easier to not fly your plane at all than it is to put into autopilot.”

Dan’s voice was so distracting. Such a beautiful sound, even though it was so broken. It had been too long since he’d rambled like this.

“I never—” Phil held his stare, watery from his forgotten tears. “I never meant to hurt you. I know it doesn’t make it any better, but I haven’t spoken to Cat since it happened. They wouldn’t say anything to anybody because they’re too frightened to lose me.”

“That’s not the point,” Dan faintly interrupted. “It’s not the point that they wouldn’t say anything. They know and it’s enough. It was supposed to be just us.”

“I know. And I broke that connection, I know,” Phil paused. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Dan returned, equally as quiet. “I don’t want to say it’s okay because this will never be okay. I’m not even angry at how you told her, I’m angry at how I can’t get over the fucking trust issue it’s created. I’m angry at myself. I want to forgive you but I’m too angry at myself.”

It seemed to all make sense, then. Dan was angry at _himself_. He was always angry at himself. Over his father’s abuse, over his mother’s failure, over his lack of defence against Harrison and how he’d dealt with his pain and how he’d dealt with this situation with Phil. Over those nineteen days, he’d been getting more angry. And it reflected in the way he was destroying himself. 

“You don’t have to forgive me, Dan. If you confide in that—having that there—then it should remain. It means nothing, but you have no reason to be angry at yourself.”

“Don’t say that,” Dan mumbled. “You sound like everybody else. Say the opposite, it’s what you do.”

“You have a reason to be angry at yourself,” Phil said slowly, subtly unsure. “You’ve had the life that kind-of equates to being allowed to be. The more you get hurt, the angrier you are. And not even at the people who hurt you because there are so many of them, they’re always different. You’re angry because the only constant is you.”

“Exactly,” Dan wiped his sleeve under his purple eyes and sniffed. “I’m trying. I’m trying for you, Phil, because I can’t do it without you. I can’t do it without words like that. Can you believe that’s all I got from nineteen days of silence? All that time for contemplation and consideration and all I ended up with was the same thing I stared with. So, in hindsight, all this meant nothing.”

Phil chewed his lip. “I’ve learned you can throw a damn good punch.”

“I said I’d never do that. Hurt you like that. Remember? You probably shouldn’t trust anything I say,” Dan shuffled closer on his crossed legs and lifted light fingers to Phil’s jaw. The bruise had faded remarkably, but it was still there in a faint presence. “I said a lot of shit when I was hitting you. I meant a lot of it, too. At least, I did at the time.”

Phil couldn’t even focus on Dan’s words, for the feeling of his fingers on his skin was like an addict getting a fix. He closed his eyes as Dan ran his thumb across his cheek and the sheets crinkled under him when he shuffled closer.

“I don’t want to—” Dan struggled, keeping his fingers still on Phil’s face. “This isn’t what’s right for us.”

“What?” Phil breathed. “Me breaking our trust? You hitting me? Ignoring each other for nineteen days and pretending nothing changed between us?”

“All of that,” Dan dragged his thumb over Phil’s lips and their breaths hitched in synchronisation. “But this, too. This soft thing.”

“Soft thing,” Phil echoed. “Also known as ‘a gay fucking love affair’, credit to yourself.”

“Don’t,” Dan’s voice came strained, like he was suffering at the memory. “Please, don’t. That wasn’t one of the things I meant.”

“You did though, didn’t you?”

“I don’t like admitting things, Phil.”

“You don’t like pretending either.”

“I’m complicated,” Dan murmured and Phil smiled under the touch of Dan’s thumb. “These last nineteen days were the worst of my fucking life. But they were also sort-of alright because I actually felt like _me._ I am the guy who disappoints people and I am the guy who cries too much and I am the guy who tries to find a purpose too often in definitions of simplicity. I know things changed after that trip to Manchester, but I don’t know enough about myself to tell you what I want. I just know I don’t belong with you and you don’t belong with me—”

“Who says?” Phil whispered. Their eyes were together and Dan was sitting right before him.

“Me.”

“You also said you were my ticket to sexual heaven.”

Dan glanced down, heat fluttering up the back of his neck. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Also not one of the things I meant.”

“What _did_ you mean?”

“I don’t know. Don’t think it matters,” he returned to staring at Phil’s lips. “I need to tell you something, I need to . . . Phil, I think I—”

“What?” Phil softly urged at his interruption.

“I think I might have depression or some shit. I don’t want to self-diagnose myself but there are so many things wrong up here,” he gestured to his head. “I’m more likely to have it anyway because of, you know, the anxiety.”

“Have you looked at symptoms?”

Dan nodded, slowly. “Have you?”

Phil mirrored his action.

“Figured you would. You know me best, I’ll admit that,” Dan chewed his lip and ran his hands over his hair. “You can touch me, you know? I won’t hit you again if you try to touch my hair or some shit. I know how fond you are of it.”

“I’m fond of it, am I?” Phil repeated, and Dan’s lips lifted. “Hey, look at that. A smile.”

Dan fought against it but the action only increased its size and he looked down into his lap to fiddle with his sleeves.

“You always do that,” Phil noted. “Play with your sleeves.”

“It’s a comfort thing.”

“Not a defence?”

“What? Against, what?”

“You know,” Phil mumbled, under his breath. “Your scars.”

“They’re all over me though. You know that, you saw them.”

“No, not—” Phil couldn’t fucking put this down. “Not the ones from your dad.”

A shadow cast across Dan’s eyes. “Right, yeah,” he breathed. “You . . . saw.”

“We can talk about it, if you want to,” Phil’s offer came weak as he recalled the state of the red lines on Dan’s wrist. “I wouldn’t make it weird or anything, I wouldn’t pressure you or—I just want to know why you feel that’s the only way to—”

“It’s not the only way. I know it’s not. The point isn’t that it’s the only way, the point is that it hurts.”

“I know, I get it,” Phil whispered. “I do. You’re numb, empty. It makes you feel better?”

“Sorta, yeah. Just don’t go on about this, okay? Please. I’m not comfortable talking about it.”

“Okay, that’s okay,” Phil hummed, eyes trained on Dan’s every movement. His voice came low as he said, “You’re so beautiful. Like, _chaotically_. You’re probably not even fucking supposed to be but you are. And you have no idea that you are because you’re wasting away and that’s all you see."

Dan looked so struck by the words. His face stated the process in which they were nestling under his skin, constructing a home beside his doubt and insecurity. He crept forward across the bed and reached his hand out to slide around the back of Phil’s neck. He put their foreheads together and whispered, “Why do I have to be the one to do this?”

“You told me never to touch you again,” Phil whispered back. “I made a promise to you. All those things you said, they hurt.”

Dan’s eyes flashed. “What you did hurt, too.”

“I know,” Phil said calmly and put a hand on Dan’s back. He dropped it as he shuffled away.

Dan screwed his eyes shut and rubbed his hands over his face. “You’re supposed to stop me from doing that.”

“What?”

“Moving away from you. You’re supposed to want me there,” he shook his head. “I guess you weren’t the only one who changed things. I’m sorry for what I said, is that enough?”

“Enough for what?”

“For you to want me again,” His brown eyes were sad and desperate. “Is that enough?”

“Dan, I never _stopped_ wanting you—” Phil breathed out in disbelief and reached to take Dan’s hand. He felt the currents jolt up each of their wrists as he opened his thin fingers and slipped his in between. _God, it felt fantastic_. “If you were the last thing I ever had, you would be enough.”

Dan squeezed on his hand. An anchor. An unsteady ship on an unsteady sea. He conjured his next words up from somewhere deep in his heart.

“I’m not enough for anybody but you. It’s why I want this back, why I’m desperate for it because you’re the only thing worth the effort of my lungs.”

Phil let that swim to find the centrepiece of his feelings for Dan, before he tugged on his hand. “Come here,” he said, so quietly it almost didn’t feel real.

“I am here.”

“No, _here_ ,” Phil emphasised the final word and tugged on his hand again. It seemed impossible that Dan was still quite a distance away—too big of a distance—just like it seemed impossible when he crawled that distance over to settle on Phil’s lap. His back was to Phil’s chest and so Phil tightened his arms around his tiny body and nudged his face into his neck.

A moment passed and then Phil cautiously asked, “Can I try something?”

“Try, what?”

“It’s a surprise.”

Dan leaned further back into his chest. “As long as it doesn’t hurt.”

“Course not. You’ve hurt too much already. It might make you feel better,” And Phil didn’t even wait for a response, he couldn’t. He opened his mouth just slightly over Dan’s neck and dragged his lips over the skin there in a kiss so intimate it made his insides melt. Dan’s body stiffened and then relaxed in Phil’s arms as he did it again, this time not waiting a second to go into the third kiss. Phil moved his lips down Dan’s neck and moved one hand to run through his hair when he turned his head to the side. Their hearts were beating out-of-control, skin burning and chests contracting, but it felt so fucking good that they didn’t even speak as Phil kissed down the skin and Dan lifted his hand to touch the boy’s face.

“Fuck,” The younger breathed. “What are you— _Phil_.”

Phil disconnected his mouth quickly. “I’m sorry—Do you want me to—”

“No,” Dan shook his head, frantically. “No, no, no, don’t stop. Makes me forget everything. Please, do it more.”

So Phil lightly kissed below Dan’s ear and then just further down and as he moved, he left a damp trail and his scent to mark where he’d touched him. Dan’s head moved back to rest against his shoulder as he kissed back up his neck and settled on a spot that made him squirm on his lap.

“You’re so gorgeous when you get what you want,” Phil whispered into the hot skin and Dan shuffled back further, fingers frantically sliding up the back of Phil’s hair to pull at the strands.

“Please,” he choked. It was ugly and it was beautiful and he suddenly turned around to put his hands on Phil’s chest and face him.

Phil’s heart was racing. _Fuck, he shouldn’t have done that_. “Did I—”

Dan pushed on Phil so he was laying down and he was above him, and he nudged their faces together.

“That was your apology,” he mumbled. “Can I say sorry now?”

Phil was breathing too fast. “It wasn’t, and you don’t have to for anything, but you can.”

“I can’t say I wanted this to be perfect because I don’t think I’ve ever admitted to wanting it—” Dan lowered his face so their lips brushed, and never had Phil felt anything so much. “—and I still won’t admit to it. I don’t want this and neither do you. But we’re doing it anyway, right? Say that. That’s what we’re saying. We don’t want this and we don’t want each other but we’re doing it anyway—”

“Dan,” Phil reached his hand up to cup his face. “Baby, just _kiss me_.”

And then Dan was right fucking there, closer than he’d ever been. His mouth was on Phil’s before the earth had time to calculate that Dan Howell was kissing Phil Lester and, _fuck_ , was he kissing him. It wasn’t one of those kisses where their mouths moved in synch or their hearts thudded together because they were so fucking desperate for this that nothing was actually how it should have been. Their mouths craved so much of each other that it wasn’t a matter of _we’ll just touch lips for a bit_ , it was a matter of Dan scrambling onto Phil’s chest and moving too fast for either of them to keep up.

Dan got his hands all caught in Phil’s hair as their mouths moved, and their little whimpers chanted _we don’t fucking care_ and _I love you, I love you, I love you_. Said _I would die for you right here._

“Dan,” Phil moaned his name as their hips touched and instinctively rolled together. The kiss was so strong and so powerful that their lips were touching all over the other’s face, peppering pleas of affection across noses and jawlines and cheekbones.

“I—” Dan tried to say something as Phil wrapped an arm around his waist and kissed down his throat, but he couldn’t. It was all so messy but all so perfect. He put his hands on the pillow either side of Phil’s face and breathed a blissful moan as Phil showered him with _you’re so beautiful_ and _waited so long._

“Six years,” Dan whimpered, lips on Phil’s again. If this boy had allowed any eye contact, Phil would’ve found the water returning to cloud his gaze. But there was nothing but physical contact. Nothing but hot skin and wet lips and a few words that it was easier to pretend didn’t make any sense.

But Dan Howell hated pretending, always had and always will, and Phil’s touch smeared only across his face and neck before it was over. Over like it had never even began. Over like _no, baby, wait._ Over like _don’t be scared._

“I’m not fucking scared, I’m not fucking—” Dan was shaking on the end of the bed.

“Did you not want that?” Phil’s voice was hoarse, lips plump from the rough contact. “Should we not have—”

“No, shut up, let me think,” Dan’s body trembled as he pushed his hands through his hair (messy from Phil’s fingers) and tightened his eyes shut.

“Think about what?” Phil was propped up on his elbows. “What is there to—”

“It wasn’t supposed to fucking be like that, Phil,” Dan bolted up to his feet and started pacing. “It was supposed to be—I was supposed to—I didn’t say enough. I haven’t said enough. I punched you nineteen days ago and fucked up your face—I wanted to say so much to you before I ever did that and all you got was some shitty excuse and a kiss that couldn’t have gone worse.”

Phil blinked and rubbed his face. “It was my fault. And it wasn’t a bad kiss.”

It was all there in front of Phil’s eyes now—not that he wanted Dan like that because he’d already established that and maybe it was why he was, but that he’d always wanted Dan like that. The fact that they were children was what barricaded this branch of knowledge. The fact that they didn’t understand and began to refuse to. The fact that they were boys. The fact that they were brothers. The fact that they hated each other but _I hate you_ could never burn like _six years_ could. Like a painful declaration of how goddamn long it had taken their lips to realise that they’d probably feel nice together could.

“Yes, it was. I fucked it up. It needed to wait and I rushed it,” Dan continued to pace with terrified eyes—always terrified and always beautiful—and Phil had forgotten what he’d even argued. “I fuck everything up, Phil, I know, but the one thing I didn’t want to was you. Was that. I wanted to wait, I wanted to—”

“It’s okay, sit down. Let’s talk,” Phil gently patted his hand against the mattress, aching to calm Dan’s distressed voice. The boy sat down and Phil snuck an arm around his waist. “You haven’t fucked anything up, except maybe your reckoning. But that’s only for you, in your head. You can deal with that, right? You haven’t done anything wrong with us, that was right. That was right.”

“Just because something feels right doesn’t mean it is.”

Dan had no idea what he wanted and Phil said it to be rather amusing it’d taken him so long to realise that.

“Well,” he studied Dan’s troubled reactions. “What do you want to do?”

“What the hell do you mean, what do I want to do? You’re actually letting me decide what’s best here? Because come back to me in ten minutes and you’ll get the exact opposite. I’m a fucking wreck.”

“I know it’s all a mess up there,” Phil put his fingers to Dan’s temple. Their shirts were crinkled and cheeks still red. “I know you’re struggling to get it all into place. You’ve had the weight of these last nineteen days and the weight of my mistakes and your possible depression and that kiss. But you have a right to decide—at least somewhat—where we go from here.”

A moment of silence fluttered across their attention and then, “I’m trying to understand you, Dan.”

Dan’s looked into his lap with a strong face of feeling. “How can you ever understand me at all, if I don’t even understand myself?”

“You will. You’ll learn the subject in the end, providing you find the right textbook. I can be your textbook.”

“But textbooks don’t read the people that try to read them,” Dan mumbled. “They’re just there to provide information, to get tossed around in a shitty school bag and that’s not you. That will never be you.”

“Maybe I’m just . . . ”

“Just, what?”

“Just, _just_. Maybe I’m just _just_.”

“Are you trying to say you aren’t important?” A frown stilled on Dan’s face, defence anchoring his frantic being. “Because you’re not allowed to say that. You’re not allowed to feel that, I won’t let you. Phil, your existence is not _just_ anything, okay? I believe that the definition of human life is to influence something and, fuck, have you influenced me. You’ve done it. You’ve already done what so many people never do. And I tell you, if you were a book, you’d be _Winnie The Pooh_.”

Phil’s heart was crying. He’d missed this Dan, his Dan. “I’d be your favourite?"

“Of course, you’d be my favourite,” Dan reached to tuck a strand of Phil’s fringe behind his ear and press his lips to his cheek. There, he mumbled, “I’m really, sort-of scared, Phil. About my body and my head. They don’t like each other a whole lot.”

“Kinda like us,” Phil smiled, and the joke in his tone calmed Dan’s eyes.

“Nothing like us. If you were my body and I was my head, we’d be punching each other and coughing up all the blood I’ve lost through these,” Dan’s finger dragged over his left wrist and Phil shivered, not just at the reminder Dan _self-harmed_ but at the tragic sentence he’d just uttered. “But there’d be no hugs or one-time kisses afterwards to make it okay. The head never kisses the body and the body never kissed the head. They just leave each other there—A sort-of _see who dies first_ thing.”

“Do you want to talk about your feelings? Your maybe-depression?”

“We just made out and you don’t want to talk about that?”

Phil shrugged. “I don’t know what’s even right to talk about anymore. I know I . . . liked that.”

Dan’s breath was heavy and his chest seemed to rattle at the weight of it. “I liked it, too,” he barely whispered. “So much. But I haven’t figured out what I feel for you yet, like—I haven’t figured out what the fuck I’m going to do.”

“You mean, you have figured out what you feel me and you don't know what to do?”

Dan didn’t say anything. He lay down on Phil’s bed and ran his hands through his hair. ”What the hell do we do, Phil?” he sighed, eyes up on the ceiling.

“About?”

“You _know_ what about.”

“I don’t actually,” Phil rolled onto his stomach beside Dan and faced him. “The depression or the kiss?”

“Neither, really. Just . . . us. What the fuck are we, Phil?”

“Brothers. Friends. Enemies,” Phil shook his head at the labels they’d accumulated. “Are you going to suggest we pretend what just happened didn’t happen? And we start on day twenty of suffering?”

“I don’t—”

“—Like pretending,” Phil nodded. “Yeah, sorry. I forgot. You know, though, you do a lot of it.”

“How?”

“You pretend like you don’t care. You pretend like you enjoy the attention. You pretend like you’re shit at most subjects and—”

“Actually, that’s incorrect. I never pretended to be shit at anything, especially English. Since that’s obviously what you’re referring to there. You just inferred that I was shit, so that’s your mistake.”

“Another thing,” Phil half-smiled. “You pretend to dislike me.”

“Maybe I do. After what happened, like.”

“You don’t,” he softly defended the truth. “I made a mistake with the Cat thing and I deserved the punch—two punches—but you don’t dislike me.”

“I don’t,” Dan agreed with a tender smile. “Nineteen days of so much fucking mental exhaustion and my brain’s still aching for your touch and attention. I want to hate you but I never can for long.”

Phil shuffled up the bed and put his head down on Dan’s shoulder. “We don’t ever have to do that again. Don’t feel like, just because we’ve done it once, it means we have to do it again,” Phil didn’t know what he was saying as he muttered the words into Dan’s shirt and he didn’t give himself time to figure it out, shutting his mind off after the final word had found a place in the air.

“It’s so difficult. This entire thing, it’s so difficult.”

“I know,” Phil lifted his face and brushed Dan’s fringe from his eyes. “I know, and it’s really shit. But I’m here for you, okay?”

“What makes you think I’m not gonna go back to ignoring you after this?” Dan’s voice was too quiet to read.

“Are you?”

Dan exhaled and closed his eyes. “I just want to sleep. I’m so fucking tired and there’s so much wrong with me and I just want to sleep.”

“Why can’t you?” Phil whispered.

“Because Elise won’t get off my ass and it’s the goddamn afternoon, so no doubt she’ll be up here soon. Which means I can’t sleep here with you—I realised I’m not too good at sleeping by myself. At least, not after finding out what it feels like to be here,” Dan shuffled closer to Phil and sighed again. “I know, I need to stop talking. I’ve just been deprived of a lot and I’m trying to get the most of the things I missed. It’s probably why I kissed you.”

“You can talk for as long as you like. I’ve been deprived of your voice. Give me the most of that.”

Dan smiled, lopsided against the pillow, and it felt like heaven right there in the same room hell had burned for nineteen days before.

“Sorry I hit you, Phil,” he said, the gentlest words to shudder from his lips.

Phil touched his cheek. “Sorry you felt like you had to just say that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was intense lol. It’s just gonna keep getting more so, if you hadn’t already realised that. Who do you think was wrong here? Can we stand on the outskirts of a relationship like this one—two people so honestly connected—and give our opinion? It can be argued that it’s impossible to understand a battle like this one, like Dan’s in particular where he’s fighting so much.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter. This fic has some of the best sentences I’ve ever written in it.
> 
> “ _If you were the last thing I ever had, you would be enough_.”


	18. XVIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter features heavy content of a mature nature. It features GRAPHIC descriptions of acts of self-harm. Please be cautious when reading. Also, I’d recommend reading my note at the end because I have a lot to say about this.**

**XVIII**

The remarkable thing was, nothing actually changed. Dan continued to stay there in the room—when Phil woke up on Monday morning, he was there in his own bed with a vacant expression as a representation of _my brain really hurts_ —and Phil continued to go to school without him. He made small-talk about irrelevant topics with Chris in lesson, but avoided all trace of Cat. And he sat alone for lunch, apart from that one day Harry fucking Ester sat with him.

That boy wasn’t even aware how many infrequent thoughts Phil had of him.

The only real thing that changed was that Phil helped, and Dan was too overwhelmed by the pain of emotional numbness to ever push his fingers away. The darkness of three in the morning began to sound like _I’m not going to leave you alone_ and it just felt like everything was trying too hard to be beautiful.

They didn’t kiss again, and there wasn’t actually a restraint there either. It wasn’t that they’d already gotten their fix, it was just that arms to sleep in were so much more than a kiss to a depressed boy. Dan lost more weight and cried less (because it was becoming physically impossible) and spoke poems of worthlessness into Phil’s ear and didn’t ever sleep more than an hour or two. And his lips were always chapped and his heart was always bleeding and his skin was always suffering with open wounds that acted as tunnels to a peace of mind.

Some night when it was getting colder, stretches of daylight getting shorter, Dan said he was going out to see Tanner and Abi. He only ever left the house for Tanner and Abi because, outside, they were all that mattered. Inside, he had all he needed.

It was a Friday night and one of Tanner’s friends had a family who owned this bar—Phil knew Dan was going to get drunk. He knew the night wasn’t going to end in the way his (failing) optimistic-self was hoping. He knew Tanner and Abi didn’t care enough to bring him home, should he need them to. They weren’t smart enough to know that they needed one sober mind of three.

So Phil just went right ahead and invited himself.

“Are you out of your mind?” Dan stared at him with wide-eyes and the most definable expression in a long time. He was stood, dressed in a black shirt and black hoodie and skinny jeans. “You can’t just invite yourself to come with me.”

“Sure, I can,” Phil said, spraying himself with cologne and proceeding to sit on his bed to slide trainers onto his feet. “Maybe I’ll pick up a chick.”

“A _chick_?” Dan scoffed. “Hell, no. You won’t.”

“Jealous?”

Dan shook his head. “Shut up. Don’t make it like that. I was just saying, the bar we’re going to is . . . it’s not your scene.”

“This isn’t my scene,” Phil waved his hand at himself. “But I’m going with you because I don’t want you hurting yourself.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“I don’t want to not. But, I guess, no. I don’t trust your stability right now. Don’t yell at me for that when you know I’m in my right mind to be concerned for you.”

“I’m concerned for myself,” Dan grumbled and paused. “I just don’t want Tanner fucking you up because then I’d have to do something and it would ruin everything.”

“You’d do something against him?”

“If it was you, yeah,” he bunched his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “It’s offensive you doubt these things, Phil Lester.”

Phil just smiled. “I’m coming, whatever you say. When do they get here?”

“They don’t, I told them I’d walk down. It’s not far from here,” Dan started walking across the room to the door. Phil got up and he turned to him, weakly demanding, “Babe, stay. Please.”

“No, I’ll only spend my night worrying about you. You’ll end up in a gutter somewhere if you’re left to this alone. At least, if I’m there, I can tell you when you’ve had enough and get you out of there before you start considering stupid things.”

“I don’t need you parenting me,” Dan said. “I’ve got along just fine without either of them.”

“Nothing you can say will talk me out of not going,” Phil stood his ground and gestured to the closed door behind Dan. “Come on, what are you waiting for?”

Dan huffed and turned around, opening the door and starting out down the stairs. “Are you gonna sneak out with me, then?” he asked Phil, as they walked.

“We’re sneaking out?”

“I can’t exactly tell Bernie and Elise we’re going to get _drunk_ , Phil.”

“I’m not. I don’t drink, I’m not you.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

Phil could hear the eye-roll in his tone.

“Can you even get served at this bar? You know, without ID?”

“The guys that work there all know Tanner. We just tell him what we want and he can get them to hand it right over. A lot of the time, there’s not even a charge.”

“Have you done this before?” Phil questioned the confident tone in which he was speaking. He thought it was unnecessary, that the answer was there before him.

“I’ve been to this bar a lot, yeah,” There was a dismissal in his voice, for some reason. Maybe he was just as ashamed of his toxic habits as Phil was concerned.

When they reached the bottom of the staircase, Dan peeked his head around the corner to survey the hallway. He nodded an _all clear_ and Phil proceeded to quietly follow him across to the front door. The faint sound of the television was flurrying out from the living-room and Phil held his breath as Dan clicked on the lock and they slowly slipped out of the house. It felt, that moment, like what going to the attic had felt like back at the orphanage. Their place. Their time. They’d always have to go unnoticed into their own little universe, of sorts. Leave no breadcrumb trails.

“It’s not a long walk,” Dan informed as they started off down the pavement. “And Bernie and Elise probably won’t realise you’re out.”

“Thanks for that, Dan,” Phil mumbled, eyes trained on his feet. “I’m no longer worried about the consequences of what we’re currently doing.”

“Hey, _you_ insisted on coming.”

“I know. But I wouldn’t have had to, had this been a safe idea.”

“It is a safe idea,” Dan sighed. “You’re being dramatic. I can handle a couple glasses of beer.”

“You’re _sixteen_.”

“And?”

Phil scoffed and shook his head, and they proceeded on in silence. The trust he’d placed in Dan was being tampered with by the persistent fingers of mental illness and addiction. He just didn’t want to lose him; they just didn’t want to lose _each other_. That’s what this whole thing had always been about.

“Can you please not try anything tonight?” Dan absently pleaded, after a while.

“Try anything?”

“You know,” he shrugged, vague. “With me.”

“Like, _be close_ to you?”

“Yeah, like . . . that. It’s okay when it’s just us—I mean, it’s not, but it’s easier to tell ourselves it is. Nobody can see us when the curtains are drawn and the bedroom door’s shut,” Dan spoke distantly, lightyears away, like the words were too _whatever_ to have close to him. “It’s not okay when people can see, though. It’s not okay to give them anything to go on or to give them the wrong idea. We can’t be the same in public as we are in private and . . . and you probably know that already. Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Phil muttered against the high collar of his jacket. “I get it. I understand. I’m not stupid enough to so much as smile at you when Tanner and Abi are around.”

“It’s not just them, Phil. Everybody in this bar—” There was a pause as the wind shrilled. “—they’re not the kind-of people comfortable enough to just look away when a guy touches a guy. Please, don’t try anything. No matter how fucked up I get tonight, don’t treat me like the boy you know.”

“The boy you _are_?”

Dan shook his head quickly at that but it seemed he decided to ignore it. “Don’t try anything unless you want to be beaten to death.”

“By who? You?”

“Are you even fucking listening?” Dan grumbled at him. “Them. All the people at the bar. They’ll hurt you, Phil, if you try to make me stop hurting.”

Phil didn’t want to respond to the words closing Dan’s voice. He didn’t want to acknowledge that he wasn’t going to be able to help the boy he _existed_ to help because there had been a twist of fate, and the silence was okay as they wound up at the little bar just short of a moment after. The road it stood on was a picture of the storm between mayhem and gloom. It was as though the world had forgotten to tend to its existence.

The bar was situated in a dull and vacant setting. Its dusty front doors were secluded away behind a group of men smoking something that really didn’t smell like tobacco.

“Abi’s here tonight,” Dan didn’t comment on Phil’s reaction to the street, or the men.

“Yeah, I know. You mentioned earlier.”

“So, I’ll probably be with her. Quite a lot, most of the night.”

“You’re leaving me in this piece of shit bar? Dan, I’ll have no kidneys by the end of tonight and no goddamn profit from them either.”

“What the hell does that even _mean_?”

“Too challenging for your average mind?” Phil teased him, lightly.

“It’s _not_ average, shut up,” Dan’s smile was small. “I’m not leaving you, you can stay in sight, just . . . don’t interfere. She’s my girlfriend, it’s not cool. But don’t go too far either because, yeah, you might misplace your kidneys.”

“ _Misplace_.”

“Are you coming?”

Phil glanced up at the dingy building once more, then nodded his head and followed Dan inside. They slipped past the men, making a point of not disrupting them. Behind the doors, the lights were low and the room was cramped. There was a seated area pushed away somewhere in a corner, but the bar and dance-floor were most prominent. A droning rhythm pulsed a beat as background noise and Phil’s eyes stilled on the way nothing had the capability of being still. Vibrant liquids in small glasses, sweat to glisten on skin, hearts to pound in ears as a mockery of the clamorous beat.

“Dan, hey, is that you?”

Phil’s attention sparked and reached out for the words. Tanner had approached, face illuminated by a strong shadow cast from the terrible lighting.

“Man, I didn’t think you were gonna make it,” he punched Dan’s shoulder. “Been flunking a hell of a lot lately.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dan scratched the back of his neck under his hoodie. “Sorry, man. There’s just been a lot going on for me.”

“What’s the deal? You need, like, a fucking shrink or something?” There was an undertone of cruelty in Tanner’s voice, cradled by common amusement.

“No,” Dan snapped, quickly. “I just need some fucking alcohol.”

“I can help you with that—” Tanner’s regard stuttered across to Phil and he gritted his teeth. “You _didn’t_ bring him.”

“He insisted on coming for a night out,” Dan said. “What the hell could I say? Free country and that.”

“You aren’t getting no free drinks,” Tanner growled at Phil. _Don’t want any, fucking asshole_. “Rules only apply to friends. And you’re not my friend or are you deserving of anything free.”

“What have I done to you this time, then?” Phil’s tone was coloured by blandness as he crossed his arms.

“You _exist_ , Lester. It’s enough for anybody,” Tanner roughly pushed on Dan’s shoulder. “Come on, man, let’s go get a round. Fuck him.”

Dan turned to sneak a look back at Phil before they melded with the crowd surrounding the bar. The look didn’t say anything and that wasn’t even disappointing; Phil was expecting of a ‘change’ in Dan when there was a ‘change’ in environment. And this, most certainly, was a change in environment. Particularly for Phil, who hadn’t been to a bar of any sort since he’d followed Dan down to one when they were fourteen. Or something like that. But, even then, he hadn’t entered. He hadn’t so much as sat on the curb opposite the building amongst the numbing breeze and waited so long that his fingers were red raw.

It was hot inside and Phil unzipped his jacket, then slid his hands into his pockets as he headed slowly between the crowds. He had no particular direction, no navigation. The pop hit in his ears was a polished sound.

He dawdled around for a long time. Hours, it felt like. He really did try his best to ignore the displeasing looks he received towards his vulnerable appearance, but it was a challenge. Everything about him was not of the typical man. It really was a talent that Dan could conceal his meek nature beneath such a strong front.

After too long of pointless circling around the edges of the dance-floor, Phil heard a voice and felt a squeeze on his upper-arm.

“Hey!”

He turned to a short, blonde woman. She must’ve been about twenty.

“You’ve been looking bored as _hell_ for a while now. How’s it going, blue eyes?” she posed a grin. Her fingers remained around his arm.

“Uh, good,” he cleared his throat. “Good. And you?”

“Did your friends leave you? Do you want to get a drink?” she ignored his question with a dramatic tuck of her hair behind her ear.

“Oh, no—I don’t drink,” Phil emphasised the shake of his head, as it seemed she was hard of hearing under the volume.

“You don’t, what? You don’t drink?” she pushed her face closer to Phil’s and Phil’s heart startled. He shook his head again.

“Shame, blue eyes,” she smirked and sneaked her hand down slowly his shoulder. “We could have some fun.”

Phil’s laugh was painfully uncomfortable and he twisted his hands so tight in his pockets that the action in itself urged _leave me the hell alonw_. He glanced over the girl to search for Dan near the bar, but failed to locate him. Shit.

The girl slid her fingers down Phil’s arm and pulled his hand from out of his pocket. There was a deep seduction in the glint of her eye. “Fancy a dance, blue eyes?”

“Uh,” Phil swallowed the denial in the back of his throat. “I—I’m waiting for someone. I—”

“Nonsense!” she scoffed and pulled on his arm. “Come on!”

She led him between the people to the crowded dance-floor and put her arms around his neck. Phil reluctantly placed his hands on her waist and they moved together, one rigid body with a loose one. His head grew murky and vision cloudy as the girl pushed their hips together, eyes dancing with a taste of indecency. All Phil could fucking think about was _Dan_ as the girl whispered something obscene in his ear. A nausea rose in his body as she ran her lips down to skin.

He reached to put his shaking hands on her shoulders and forcibly move her back. It felt so wrong, being so close to this woman. She smelt overly feminine, skin soaked in a strong perfume.

Phil tried to speak but his attention shifted to where Dan was moving, in the distance, with Abi at his side towards the busy seating area of the bar. Just a sight of him, and Phil wanted to _weep_ with relief.

“Excuse me,” he dismissed, somewhat respectfully. “I have to—to be somewhere.”

And then he was leaving the confused and antagonised woman in the centre of the floor. She couldn’t call after him because she didn’t know his name, or something like that. She just stood there, situated with an unintended humiliation.

Phil scurried through the people with a panicked heart to reach where Dan was stood in the corner with Abi on his arm, around a table of people Phil had never seen before in his life. The only other person he could name was Tanner, and there must’ve been eleven of them. Boys with smug expressions; bottles in their hands and girls on their laps. Phil made the quick assumption that these were the men it was apparently a benefit Tanner knew.

“The hell are _you_ doing here, Phil?” Abi’s voice was an intoxicated slur. Dan had a glass of something in his hand, and his stance said he’d already drank too much.

Phil’s chest ached with _fuck, already?_

“He came for a night out,” Tanner laughed from the table. “The only chance he gets, this guy. But, I guess I can’t blame him. Must be desperate. Who do you have to fuck, man, your Math homework?”

That amused much too many of them. Dan smiled too, but the twitch of his jaw was a flaw in his perfect composure. At least, as perfect as being drunk allowed him to be.

“Where have you been this whole time?” Abi asked Phil. “You been with a girl? Find somebody, finally?”

“Have you even had your first kiss?” A voice Phil didn’t know appeared, followed by a sequence of laughs.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to go home so fucking much, but he had to stay for Dan. Just the way the boy was struggling to stand on his two feet, even with the support of Abi, said he had probably already had enough.

“Have you had a drink? Alcoholic, like,” A stranger on the table mocked Phil.

He slowly shook his head. “I don’t drink.”

“Literally, how the _fuck_ did you get in here?” Another boy—man, really—placed a more sturdy question. He was strongly scrawled, left arm tight around an artificial woman.

“He’s Dan’s brother,” Tanner said. “Or . . . step-brother? I don’t fucking know, just know they’re not blood related. Adoption and all that shit, it confuses me.”

“I need another drink,” Dan spoke then, and the drag of alcohol in his voice hurt. Phil instantly noticed his glass was empty.

“Already? Haven’t you had enough?” Abi was sickly-sweet as she kissed the side of Dan’s face. His body was impressively rigid in its state of heavy intoxication.

“No, I need another,” he slurred and slammed his glass on the table. “Take a hint, like.”

“Just wait five minutes for me to finish, then I’ll go get a couple with you,” Abi told him, just as disorientated.

“Yeah, man,” One of the guys agreed. “Chill on the beer. You’re, like, still in high-school aren’t you?”

Dan scoffed.

“He’s right. I mean, you should just wait for me to catch up,” Abi kissed him again, this time it was a horrible one in the corner of his goddamn mouth. She mumbled something against his face and pulled on the top of his hoodie. “You’re sweating, why do you still have this on? It’s fucking _thick_.”

Phil focused on the situation, despite the question being posed at him from the table.

“Don’t need to, I’m fine,” Dan dismissed Abi’s remark.

“Bullshit, take it off,” she tried again, forceful. “You’re gonna overheat in this place.”

“I said I’m fine,” Dan stumbled back from her. “Stop making a fuss.”

“Just take your goddamn hoodie off, man,” Tanner rolled his eyes. “You know what she’s like when she’s drunk. Might go all apeshit on your ass in a minute over that piece of clothing. Save yourself the wounds."

“I’m fine, Tanner. Sort-of cold, actually,” Something in Dan’s voice, away from the flood of alcohol, was harshly sober. Phil continued to analyse the situation, debating whether or not to step in.

Tanner laughed at that, glass in hand. “Cold? Okay, _now_ you’re bullshitting. It’s ninety degrees in this shit-hole and there’s literal sweat dripping down your face.”

“I’m cold. Why would I lie about being fucking cold?” Dan snapped and moved again when Abi tried to wrap her arm back around him.

“Alright, chill out. It’s a _hoodie_ , Dan, Jesus.”

“You’re the one making a big fucking deal about it.”

“I'm worried you’re gonna die,” Abi returned with her irritating drowsiness. “You’re my boyfriend, listen to me. Take it _off_ , I said.”

She yanked on his sleeves and Phil’s breath hitched. He was between them in seconds, hand pushing at Abi’s shoulder so she staggered back. It wasn’t hard enough to move her, not even slightly, but her state made it so that a mere nudge would have her on the floor.

“Hey, did you just fucking _hit_ her?” Tanner was on his feet.

“That was a stupid thing to do, wasn’t it?” The man on the end of the table stood up and the table rocked at the force of it. Phil cowered back as he approached, aggressively. He had slick, black hair and thin eyes. “Hitting women in this bar? Not fucking likely to get off with that.”

“What a fucking sissy,” Somebody chortled at Phil’s reaction. He was shuffling back, frantic, fearful of the man.

“You’ll wish you never did that when I’m done with you—” The man reached to roughly grab Phil by the collar of his jacket, and Dan was shoving him back before he could so much as tighten his grip.

“Don’t fucking touch him, Karl,” he growled, drunk and angry and so fucking beautiful as he grabbed Phil’s arm.

“What the hell are _you_ gonna do about it, Howell?” Karl moved back into Phil’s vicinity. “He hit your goddamn girlfriend, why don’t you beat his ass?”

“Yeah,” Abi chirped. Her eyes were thunder on Phil. “Punch him good, Dan.”

“Nobody’s punching anybody,” Phil tried to reason.

“It’s alright for you to say that,” Abi spat. “You’re just scared of Dan.”

“Go on, Dan,” Karl seethed. “Hit him. You’ve got more than enough reason, not that that’s ever been a problem to you.”

Dan’s jaw was clenched tight. “I’m not.”

“Sorry?” Karl leaned closer, patronising.

“I said I’m _not_ ,” he managed. “I’m not.”

“I will, the shit hit my sister,” Tanner got up and started to shuffle around the table.

“I didn’t hit her!” Phil squeaked.

“Tanner, sit the fuck down,” Dan demanded. He still had his hand on Phil’s arm. It didn’t seem the pressure of his friends was attacking anything but his dignity. It was sat there cold and sober.

“Whose side are you _on_ , Dan?” Tanner’s voice raised. “Because you’re standing there like _he’s_ the one fucking you—”

“Okay, I think we should go,” Phil uttered, under his breath. Dan’s breathing rate had increased intensely and his frame was tight and defensive against the words.

“What are you trying to say?” he fired back at Tanner.

“You know _exactly_ what I’m trying to say,” Tanner's eyes were fixed on Dan’s face. “Stick up for your fucking girlfriend, you ass. He’s nothing to you.”

“He’s—” Dan choked, stumbled over the hard words. “She was just pushing it with me, Tanner, she was causing a scene and—”

“No, she wasn’t. That’s bullshit, Dan.”

“This isn’t even anything to do with you,” Dan fought back, dragging his defence up from somewhere concealed inside of him. “Mind your own business, how about that?”

“She’s my sister and your piece of shit brother—or not-brother—just shoved her,” Tanner’s anger began to chip away at his surface. “Look, man, if you want to say something just fucking say it. But say it to my face and say it hers, yeah? You know, she’s out of your league anyway, always has been.”

“I could fuck you up so bad,” Dan hissed at him. His grip was trembling on Phil.

“Oh, yeah? Don’t humour me, Dan, you’d be nothing without me. Nothing but a little bitch smoking like a junkie after school.”

“Dan,” Phil turned and tried to move him backwards, sensing the danger glaring red in the situation.

“And you’d be something without me?” Dan laughed. “You wouldn’t have half of your shit if I didn’t exist. All those girls you’ve been through this year were through me. All those English assignments in on time are down to me. All the free smokes are down to me because I steal the money from my mother’s fucking _purse_ —”

“Oh, your mother? Let’s talk about _mothers_ , Dan,” Tanner gritted his teeth around a cruel chuckle. “What happened to your real one? Did she not want you, Dan? Did she think you were too much of a bitch? Whiny, demanding, girly? Nobody fucking likes you, mate, we all just pretend to because we feel _sorry_ for you.”

“Fuck off, Tanner,” Phil’s fury fizzled at the edges and snapped into little fragments all over the floor. That was enough, where he decided to draw the line. It was too far. “Who do you think you are? You can’t just—He’s—How fucking _dare_ you think it’s okay to say that to him?”

“Do you have a problem, Lester?” 

“Yes, I have a problem,” Phil seethed and started moving towards Tanner. Dan’s thin fingers came and secured tighter around his arms.

“Then why don’t you come tell me about it?” Tanner urged. “Come show me what you can do.”

“Maybe I just fucking _will_ —”

“Phil, no, stop,” Dan hooked an arm around his shoulders. His protection was strong both in his action and words, despite the slur still dragging in his voice. “Stop it, he’s not worth it.”

“He’s not getting away with saying that shit to you!” Phil yelled and turned back to Tanner. “You’re absolute fucking _scum_! You could never have any idea what he’s been through, you could never have any idea what shit like that does to him! Come over here and let me fucking hurt you for hurting him—”

Tanner jolted towards them, but Dan was already pulling Phil away.

“Move, quickly,” he told him, rushed. He reached for Phil’s wrist and fixed a tight grip on it as he scurried through the crowds of people. Tanner’s voice yelled for them over the music but they continued to move, lurching out of the doors and breaking off into a run up the street.

“Dan, Jesus—” Phil choked on a contracted breath and the rush of air as they bolted down the road. Streetlights illuminated their visions, shoes clattering frantically up the road. Phil remained close to Dan in order to catch him, should he stumble over his own feet in his state-of-mind. They had no idea if Tanner was following them, it was impossible to tell, and Phil only allowed himself to stop running when Dan did. They turned a sharp corner at the beginning of a vacant street and halted there, keeling over to catch their breath.

“Are you sure he’s not coming?” Phil forced out.

Dan shook his head. “He couldn’t run this far with his already fucked-up lungs. Addict.”

Phil cracked a laugh in between desperate breaths and Dan followed, sound tipsy from his intake. His swayed over against the wall of a shop and slumped down onto the floor, back to the brickwork with a laugh still soaked into the back of his throat. Phil sat down next to him after a few moments, still amused also, and ran his hands over his hair.

“Fuck,” he breathed, heavily. A lot of the weight was released, and he wondered why it was so easy. “That wasn’t supposed to happen at all.”

Dan smiled, inappropriate and messy, up towards the sky.

Phil stared at him. He couldn’t quite believe any of this had happened. “Sorry for saying all that just then, blurting it all out to Tanner after I said I wouldn’t do anything—”

Dan turned his head from the wall and, in the beat of second, reached to wrap his hand around Phil’s neck and pull their mouths together. Phil’s senses erupted as he kissed him back, desperate and fucking _aching_ for it because it seemed that was just their way, and Dan tilted his head to find a deeper connection. He put his hand on Phil’s chest and moved his mouth with such an intense craving. Their mouths worked together as complex as before, all cold lips and fast breathing and hands twisting through hair and sliding up the front of shirts.

“Dan,” Phil moaned into his mouth. “ _Fuck_ , baby, I—”

“I know,” Dan choked, lips coming to the same place that woman’s had earlier. They felt so cold and gorgeous there, rough and wrong but better than anything he’d ever felt. “We need to go home, we can’t do this here.”

“Do, what?” Dan got up and extended his hand. Phil took it, instantly.

“Whatever you want, you absolutely gorgeous fucking person,” Dan tightened his grip on Phil’s hand and kissed his lips once more. He dragged Phil down the road and gave nonsense comments that provided Phil’s mind with an ocean of fantasies. “Let’s go home, darling. Have fun. Do stuff. Be together.”

“Baby, we—” Phil allowed his mind into the ocean of consideration and felt like _fainting_. “We can’t do that at home. It’s . . . too risky. You’re drunk, maybe you just—”

“No, I want to do this,” he halted and looked Phil in the eyes with his drowsy, brown ones. They were hurting, Phil knew. He was hurting. “I want this with you. That’s a sober thought. I’ll want you tomorrow, too, I just might not admit it then. You know what I’m like.”

Phil couldn’t believe he was suggesting this. “So, maybe it’s a good idea to just—”

Dan shook his head and moved his face towards Phil’s, dragging their lips together. He took a breath and mumbled, “Be with me.”

And, no matter how drunk he was, Phil couldn’t deny him this. He needed it, too. Fuck, he needed Dan more than he had ever needed anybody else—than he ever would—and there was so much between them, so much they were destroying but that didn’t matter because it made sense that night. So they went home to a dark house that said everybody was sleep and hadn’t noticed their sons were missing, and they went into the bathroom because it had a lock.

“You’re insanely beautiful, do you know that?” Phil whispered through the silence, as Dan kissed him against the wall. He moved his lips down Phil’s throat and a moan tumbled from his mouth.

“You’re beautifuler,” Dan mumbled, somewhat incoherent but meaning it nevertheless. “So beautiful. So beautiful and so gentle and so . . . ”

Dan’s fingers carefully shrugged the jacket off Phil’s back and it fell to the floor, allowing his cold hands to slide up his skin. Phil couldn’t endure the feeling of so much of Dan’s touch—his lips and his hands and his gorgeous fucking voice.

“Dan,” he mewled softly, as Dan kissed back up his neck.

“Phil, you’re so perfect,” Dan whispered into his ear, like he couldn’t contain it in his drunken state. “My _God_ , you’re so fucking perfect.”

And the thing was, Phil wanted this so much. More than he wanted to _breathe_ , but he couldn’t . . . he couldn’t do it to them. It wasn’t the right time. It wasn’t okay when Dan was like this. Not when he was so disconnected and so drunk and, come the morning, would either forget it had happened or never speak to Phil again for letting it. Phil thought about the nineteen days they’d suffered and it was enough to stop.

He moved a hand and threaded it through the back of Dan’s hair, lifting his face and brushing their lips softly. “Baby, I think we should wait.”

Phil could feel the frown against his lips. Dan pulled back and breathed, “What? Wait?”

“Yeah,” Phil murmured. “For tomorrow, maybe, when you’re sober. When you can actually feel what’s going on.”

“I can feel what’s going on, Phil,” Dan’s voice was still hazy but prickling with a cold chill in the corners. He stepped back and shook his head. “You don’t want me, do you?”

“What?” Phil gaped. “No, no, lovely, that’s not it. Hey, listen to me, come back here—”

Dan took two steps towards the locked door and Phil wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him back to his chest and squeezing him tight. He nudged his face into his neck and mumbled, “Don’t you ever think that I don’t want you. I couldn’t want you more if I tried, and I’ve waited so long for you to do this with me—”

“I’ve waited so long to be comfortable enough and when I finally am, you just push me away,” Dan’s voice was wounded, above all else.

“Because you won’t remember this tomorrow,” Phil tucked his hair behind his ear and kissed the skin. “You won’t remember what it felt like or all the things we said and how much we wanted each other because you’d feel so disconnected to the head you’re in now. I just want you to remember it—to be sure that you’ll never forget it—and when you’re sober, you can be sure of that. And, also, you can be sure of whether or not you really are ready for this.”

“You think I’m not?”

“I can’t tell you what you do and don’t want, Dan. I know you want me, I don’t doubt that,” Phil’s heart ached in joy around the words. “But I do doubt whether you want to rush into this.”

“How are we rushing into anything, Phil? Do you know how long I’ve known you?” Dan turned his head to glance at Phil and Phil caught his mouth in a sweet kiss.

“Just come to bed with me, baby,” he said against his lips. “Try and sleep some of this off and we’ll talk about what we want to do tomorrow. If you’re still okay with it, I won’t stop you from doing anything.”

Dan rubbed his hands over his eyes and stumbled back, gripping the side of the bath to steady himself. “I don’t wanna sleep. Wanna kiss you more.”

Phil entwined their fingers and lead Dan slowly out of the bathroom, jacket in his free hand. He guided him quietly up the stairs to their room and shut the door with caution on their entrance to the bedroom. He gently pushed Dan down onto his bed and watched the boy sit on the edge. There, he took his shoes off for him and left them on the floor, doing the same for himself.

“Go lay up the top,” Phil kneeled down at his feet, hands on the boy’s knees. “On your pillow, so you’re comfortable.”

Dan shook his head. “Want you to be with me.”

“Dan—”

“Sleep with me. Hug me to sleep,” Dan laid himself down and wrapped his arms around Phil’s neck. Phil put a hand on his back and the other on his waist and lifted him up to the top of his bed. He tucked him under the covers before he got in with him and switched the lamp off. Dan’s fingers clung to his shirt and his face rested on his shoulder as he ran soothing touches down his skin.

“I can’t have you thinking I don’t want you,” Phil kissed his hair. The boy still had his hoodie hugging his skin, protecting his pain. “I’m not like everybody else, Dan. Surely, you know I’m not. I want you more than I want to breathe.”

“I know you’re different,” Dan mumbled, distant. Drunk and tired. “You saved me.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight. All the time. You never stop. They were gonna hurt me.”

“I would never have let them,” Phil kissed him again. He was so tiny and precious in his arms. “Nobody hurts you, nobody’s allowed to.”

“You are,” Dan whispered, and Phil heard him yawn.

“I’m not. Please, don’t say that. Just go to sleep now, okay? Close your eyes,” Phil soothed into his ear. “And don’t be scared of anything, I’m right here.”

Dan nodded so slowly it wasn’t even a response, and laid there in silence long enough for Phil to assume he’d fallen asleep. Phil yawned against his tangled hair and shut his eyes in the darkness, feeling the chest moving against his own.

Dan was there. Still right there in his arms. They always found their way back to each other, no matter what distance they were driven apart. Nothing could come between them, Phil realised, and he just hoped things would stop trying.

><

In the morning, Phil woke to an empty bed and an equally empty heart. Premature sunlight filtered through the slightly parted curtains and across the bedsheets on Dan’s mattress. Phil stretched his arms and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, coming to his senses. Everything around him smelt of Dan—of smoke and coconuts and safety—but he wasn’t there. He had been, Phil came to a groggy recollection, but he wasn’t anymore.

Seeing that he wasn’t in the room _at all_ , Phil swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He pinched his nose to melt the smooth pain of that space on his head between his eyes. He hadn’t had enough sleep, not nearly enough. It seemed neither of the, ever did.

He moved down the stairs in search of Dan and heard clutters and voices from the kitchen. Bernie and Elise were awake also, he gathered, and he thought of looking down there for Dan but noticed the closed bathroom door. Something in his heart pulled, something in his mind anchored that told him _there was something not right_. It might have been a strange sense, that sort you get when somebody you care about isn’t okay. So he knocked on the door and said Dan’s name because who the fuck _else_ did he care about.

Nothing came of it.

“Dan, hey,” he tried again. “Can I come in? Is it open?”

There was nothing again, and Phil rested his head against the wood of the door. A panic started to squeeze on his chest, but he compressed it with a strong breath.

The comforting possibility of Dan just being elsewhere was proven wrong, however, when a low sound of distress came from the bathroom. Phil wouldn’t have even heard it, had he not had his face against the door.

He pushed on the handle, in the spur of the moment, and clattered through into the bathroom with a crack of the hinges. For a second, he thought it was empty. But then he noticed Dan sitting in the bathtub, dressed in the same clothes as last night and sitting with an arm around himself, the other clinging to a bottle of some alcoholic sort. And, _hell_ , it was the worst he’d ever looked.

“Dan?” Phil inched forward. He didn’t intend for the fear in his voice but he’d never seen Dan like it, not in those moments he cried about his father or in those nineteen days where he’d fallen away from himself. Not through any of the days at the orphanage. Here, sitting in the bathtub, was a Dan Phil did not know. A Dan whose ribs pushed out to correlate the bones in his face and a Dan whose hair fell over his eyes and matted at the back and a Dan who had a line of alcohol dragging down the side of his mouth and a Dan who had his sleeves rolled up like—

Phil gave a whimper that sliced right through trauma and sliced through torment at the sight of the raw cuts on both of his wrists. The lines were a violent red and the blood was smudged from the contact with his hoodie. There was so fucking much of it, so much that it was trailing down into his palm and across the paper label on the bottle.

“Dan, _holy shit_ , what have you—” Phil was fucking terrified. He’d never been so scared in all his life and— _okay_ , this was something that couldn’t be depicted as anything in a piece of shitty writing. In a piece of shitty art trying too hard to be art. Phil could spur metaphors and brief descriptions to sugarcoat and minimise the effect of the situation, but this was not a love story. This had never been a love story. It was, quite literally, just a story that tried too hard. Too hard to be beautiful, too hard to be sad, too hard to avoid the startled whisper of _no, this is too much_. 

_Of course_ , it was too much. The whole point was that it was too much. And maybe this moment was just aching for the cliché _I love you_ —

 _I love you_ right through a fucking tragedy like it was going to make it all okay. That’s what all the novels told us. That’s what all the paintings told us. That’s what we understood, but Phil _tried_ to ignore that. He loved Dan, of course he loved him, but that didn’t _matter_ because he loved him when he was a child, too. When he recited little tales of yellow bears and children with magical imaginations and he was only harmed by the infliction of everybody else’s mistakes. As if it mattered Phil loved him when he was bleeding out in their bath, too drunk and too sad. As if anything mattered but the present moment, the moment that existed right through eyes that saw and through eyes that read.

A safe _I love you_ was not needed. It would never be needed. Phil was not a character trying too hard to be a character and neither was Dan. They didn’t need any of the clichés that made them characters either because they were inappropriate and offensive, painted glossy with attractive words to brush over the surface of a gloomy depression. And this was not a fucking novel, not a fucking painting or movie. It was not something scrawled under the desperate hand of a person who hadn’t felt self-inflicted blood, who thought _I love you_ would change fucking anything.

All those failing authors. All those terrible messages. And, damn, what a piece of shitty art trying too hard to be art. But Phil wasn’t prepared to take Dan’s blood and make it art, he wasn’t going to let it be anything but his fucking _blood_. He was broken and he was bleeding, but there wasn’t a trace of love in any of it. There was nothing in that bathroom but the slow drag of fear and failure and a suffocating peak in mental illness.

Phil wouldn’t allow himself to be that guy who tried to mould reality into something pretty. He thought _fuck you_ to that. 

Dan turned at the sound of Phil’s voice. His eyes were sore and his cheeks messy with tears. He gave a sickening smile that was made awful by the sob in the back of his throat.

“Darling, you made it,” he choked. “I was waiting for you.”

“What have—Why—” Phil interrupted himself and caught his breath as scrambled to the side of the bath. He put a hand on the back of Dan’s neck to support his weak head and took the bottle—almost empty—from his hand to put on the tiles. The boy was shivering and there was an area where he’d thrown up at the top of the bath.

“P-Phil,” Dan’s breathing was low and desperate and he was crying with blood on his wrists. Phil had no fucking idea what to do and that was the honest truth.

“Baby, I—” he evaluated his options. _Who the fuck could he call?_ “What do I—Dan, I don’t know what to do—I’m so sorry, I don’t—”

“J-Just fucking leave me,” Dan’s teeth chattered. He gave a low sound of agony and clutched at his sides.

“No, I’m not—” Phil brushed his hand over the boy’s forehead where a layer of sweat was smeared. “I’m going to get you a blanket, okay, and my phone so I can call someone—”

Dan cried out and hugged his arms tighter around himself, blood smearing all over his hands and black hoodie. Phil moved frantically out of the room and darted up the stairs, bursting through the door to find his phone in his jacket. His shaking fingers moved to dial the number of the only person he felt would have a goddamn clue what to do here.

“Phil?” Cat answered almost immediately.

“Cat, I need your help,” Phil rushed, trying to suffocate the emotion in his voice. It was just—he’d seen Dan so broken before, but this was—Fuck, there wasn’t even a word for what he was sitting in that tub.

Cat stumbled over the tone of his voice. “What? What is it?”

“It’s Dan, he’s—Jesus, Cat, he’s fucking ruining himself and I don’t know what to do—” Phil’s voice slashed with a cry and he put a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound.

“Phil, calm down, talk to me,” Cat tried to settle him. “What’s happened?”

“I-I just found him sitting in the bath with this bottle of alcohol and he’s fucking drank most of it, there’s hardly any left in the—We went out last night and he got drunk then, too, and h-he's been sick and he’s shivering and—” Phil was crying as he searched for a blanket in the wardrobe. “He’s cut all his wrists, Cat, he’s fucking bleeding out—”

“Okay, sweetheart, listen to me,” Cat soaked up the words. “You need to keep him warm and make sure he doesn’t lay down on his back. Put pressure on his wrists if he’s still bleeding there and don’t let him drink anymore. He’s probably got alcohol poisoning and you need to call the ambulance—”

“Cat, I can’t do all this—” Phil grabbed the blanket from the wardrobe and started rushing back down the stairs.

“It’s okay, I’m coming down there now,” There was a clutter on the other line. “I’ll call the ambulance for you and I’ll be there in five minutes, maximum.”

“H-He’s trying to fucking kill himself, Cat, he’s—”

“Sweetheart, you need to stay calm for him, okay? We can talk about what he was trying to do when what he’s actually done is all over.”

“Okay—” Phil rushed towards the bathroom. “Please, hurry up.”

“I’m on my way right now.”

Phil hung up and dropped the phone on the tiles as he ran into the bathroom. Dan was still crying in the tub, but he’d slumped down against the back of the bath. Phil hooked his hands under his arms and lifted him. “You can’t lay down, Dan,” he held an arm there to support him as he draped the blanket tight around his shoulders.

“I-It hurts—” Dan managed to get out. “Make it st-stop hurting, Phil, I don’t wan-wanna hurt anymore—”

“We need to stop the bleeding here,” Phil secured his fingers over the cuts on Dan’s wrists and heard the boy cry, like he was being fucking tortured.

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry but you need to—” Phil searched around the room and moved to grab a roll of toilet paper. He tore it off and wrapped so much of it tight around Dan’s wrists. The paper soaked with blood almost instantly and Phil became aware of the fact that he was crying himself. Choking on the sobs. He knew that was only making Dan worse, but this boy was _his life_ and seeing him in so much pain was too much.

Phil held Dan upright in the bath and, having used all the toilet paper on the boy’s wrists, dabbed at the wet corner of his mouth with his sleeve. He supported his head and kept their eyes together.

“I-I’m sorry, Phil—” The words collapsed out of Dan's strangled voice. “I’m so sorry, I’m s-so sorry for hurting you—I had to feel b-better and get it out—I’m s-sorry—”

“Shut up,” Phil told him, tears racing off the end of his chin. “Just shut up, Dan, this isn’t your fault.”

Dan whimpered and hurled over again. He gagged dryly and Phil put a hand over his mouth. “No, baby, you can’t be sick—You could choke—”

Dan was spluttering out incoherent sentences all jumbled together and sliding across one another. He lifted his hands to his face and a trail of blood ached down his arm. Phil put a hand over his mouth and tried to console himself, like he was the one who needed the fucking help here.

He didn’t know why he thought it then, but he wondered if this was his fault. If he was the cause of any of it. He figured that maybe it was Tanner’s fault last night—and maybe it had all just been too much for Dan—but then he realised that _this_ level of pain couldn’t possibly have accumulated from one night, rather from sixteen years. It was his father and his mother and all those kids at the orphanage and all the times he’d told himself he didn’t want Phil and all the times he’d smoked and all the times he’d punched a kid who didn’t deserve the punch and all the times he’d failed to amount to anything but the names he was called.

In the red of the paper around his wrists, there was his father’s name. And _little by little_ right between the letters of that, because Dan’s life was a succession of mistakes and they all came one after the other, day after day, wearing masks over their noses that told him he could try again.

Cat arrived with a clatter of the door against the hinges and a thick coat on her shoulders. She knelt down quickly at Phil’s side so she could examine the slashes on his wrists.

“Hell,” she cursed, under her breath.

Dan turned at the sound of the new voice and started grunting, forcing her hands from him.

“Dan, she’s trying to help you,” Phil ran his hand over the boy’s wet hair. “Don’t make it worse for yourself, you need to sit still.”

“He’s going too pale,” Cat noted, putting her hand on Dan’s head. “He’s got a cold sweat, too. Dan, love, how many times have you been sick?”

The compassion in Cat’s voice was seemingly arising from how this situation was allowing her to see beneath the Dan Howell she knew, the boy with the straight hair and the strong eyes. This boy had blood gushing slowly from his wrists and tears all over his face and vomit down the front of his shirt.

Dan shook his head to her question and whined in pain, body trembling under the thin blanket.

“How fucking long are they going to be, Cat?” Phil’s heart was racing. “Look at him, he’s gonna—”

“He’s not gonna _do_ anything, okay?” Cat stared between him and Dan. “We need to make sure his heart-rate doesn’t slow so he passes out because the level of alcohol in his blood will just keep rising. Do you have any idea how much he’s had?”

“He had loads last night,” Phil’s voice was shaking. “He was pretty much off his face before he even went to sleep, and then I woke up and found him in here still drinking.“

“Did you go to a bar?”

Phil nodded, and Cat held her hand under Dan’s neck. Her eyes kept flickering to the blood smeared along the side of the bath. “He’s so fucking _skinny_ ,” she whispered. “I never realised it until now, I guess I never looked hard enough but—How long has he been like this? Does he have depression?”

“Probably,” A cry sliced through Phil’s voice and he clasped a hand over his mouth. “He’s slashed his wrists, Cat, what the hell do you think?”

“But he’s _Dan_ , he’s—” she shook her head and touched the bloody tissue. “This isn’t doing him any good, it’s just rubbing on his cuts. I bet it’s torturing him.”

She started to unwind the paper wrapped around Dan’s skin and the blood ran down all over his chilled fingers. Phil kept the hand over his mouth and looked down to the tiles like he couldn’t even bear to _look_ at him like this. It was a horridly shameful thing, not being able to handle him when he was at the lowest he’d ever been. He always looked sad, but he was the kind-of sad that was beautiful. Poetic. This, however, wasn’t either of those things. This was bloody and dark and his depression ached in the moments of strangled silence between each sob.

“He’s dehydrated from all the alcohol and vomiting,” Cat told Phil, then dropped the all the bloody tissue into his hands. “Can you go and get rid of—”

Before she could finish her sentence, two shadows appeared in the doorway and Phil knew who it was before he even looked up. Elise’s sound of pain and Bernie’s sound of disbelief echoed off the walls of the tiny bathroom, before they were rushing forward and trying to move Cat and Phil out of the way.

“Oh my _God_ —” Elise was immediately crying. “What happened to him, Phil? Why didn’t you call us up? How did— _Oh my God_.”

“Mom, please,” Phil begged her, gently moving her frantic hands away from Dan. “You’re making him worse, you need to stay calm—”

“Stay calm? He’s bleeding out all over the goddamn bath!” Bernie yelled and Dan jolted. Phil moved to hug a protective arm around his neck— _don’t you come anywhere near him like that, he’s mine and he’s hurting_ —and the boy whimpered as he fell into his chest.

“He’s cut himself, Bernie,” Cat said, excellently calm. “And he’s most definitely got alcohol poisoning. Screaming about it won’t make this so it didn’t happen.”

“Has somebody called the ambulance?” Elise cried, hands running over her face.

“I have, they shouldn’t be long now,” Cat answered.

“Jesus,” Bernie cursed. He looked somewhere between angry and terrified. “Why the hell would you do this, Dan?”

“Dad,” Phil snapped, and his tone of voice halted the room. Dan’s blood was all over fucking hands. “That isn’t helping anything. It’s not his fault, he’s _sick_.”

“Sick?”

“Yes, sick,” Phil got out behind gritted teeth. “He’s mentally ill, he needs help and—”

The doorbell sounded from downstairs, and Bernie and Elise rushed out together like they were joined at the fucking hip, like there was a rope tugging between them that prevented them from going too far from one another.

“Dick,” Phil cursed, unintentionally but meant the word nevertheless.

“He just doesn’t understand it, Phil,” Cat still had her hand on the back of Dan’s neck.

The boy’s fingers were paling blue from his sudden decrease in temperature and it wasn’t helping that he was losing so much blood. He cried out Phil’s name and Phil pressed a wet kiss—heavy with his tears—to his forehead, fingers moving his hair from his eyes. “You’re gonna be okay,” he kissed his head again and Dan weakly clung to him, eyes droopy and pained. “I know it hurts so bad, but it’s all gonna be okay—They’re gonna fix you right up, baby, and make you all better.

Cat watched them with a new-found softness in her eyes. It was all so tragic, and she could see it.

It happened so quickly, how the paramedics came and took Dan out into the ambulance. They said they had to move him quickly to get him on a drip in order to flood the alcohol from his system, but they could only have one person ride in the ambulance with him. Elise insisted she should go, then Bernie because he didn't think she could handle the stress of the situation.

“Phil,” Dan choked, from where he was laying inside. Two men moved around him, messing with strange equipment. “Want Phil to . . . ”

“You want me to come?” Phil finished for him, already stepping up into the ambulance.

“He wants you?” Bernie echoed. “Thought he bloody hated you.”

“Bernie, please,” Elise started to push on the man’s shoulder. “Will you be okay with him, Phil?”

Phil was nodding before she’d even finished her sentence. She seemed to have found some way to console herself. “Let’s get to the car, head down there straight away. Cat, dear, do you want to tag along?”

“Oh,” Cat paused. “Would that be okay?”

Before there was a response, the doors shut on them and the ambulance started moving. 

“Right then, lad, who do we have here?” A paramedic spoke to Dan, fingers gently pushing his head so it was on his side.

“Dan,” he managed.

“Dan,” The man smiled. “My son’s called Dan. He’s only seven, though. And is this your brother here?”

Dan’s eyes stuttered to Phil. He didn’t say anything, but breathed out heavy.

“I’m Phil,” Phil spoke for him. “Do you have any idea if he’s going to be okay? What’s happening to him?”

“He’s overdosed on alcohol. It’s a serious matter for anybody, let alone a boy of Dan’s age. Obviously, it’s common for a person who’s had too much alcohol to vomit but, for somebody in Dan’s situation, it’s dangerous. The body shuts down, of sorts. There’s a high chance of him choking on the vomit, just like there’s a high chance of him getting hypothermia or severe dehydration. You called just at the right time, it seems, we can get him on a drip and monitor his alcohol levels,” The man paused to breathe. “As for the self-harm, the doctor will discuss that with you. Further treatment will come for his mental health, as I’m sure you’re aware, but they’ll determine the depth of his cuts and get them cleaned up before any of that.”

When they arrived at the hospital, Dan was rushed through as an emergency. A male doctor named Dr. Luis tended to the wounds on his wrists—cleansed and bandaged the torn skin—and fixed him up on a drip. Bernie and Elise arrived with Cat as Dr. Luis stood speaking to Phil. He wasn’t a man who was willing to start again just for their benefit; it seemed he was on a tight schedule.

“The staff on the ward he’ll be going on up to soon will monitor his level of alcohol,” he was explaining. “They’ll keep you notified so you’re aware of when he’s low enough to be discharged.”

“What about his . . . wrists?” Phil questioned, equally as low and controlled. Dan was laid out on the bed in the centre of the room, against the back wall.

“Dan will have another doctor when he goes up to the ward,” Dr. Luis informed. “He’ll need to talk to him about all that when his alcohol level begins to decrease. The alcohol poisoning was also a subject of self-inflicted pain. He’s sixteen-years-old, but regardless of his age and what that meant for his condition, he harmed himself. In more ways than one, and that will need to be discussed. Excuse me, I should be going now.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Bernie shook the man’s hand on his exit. Phil slumped down into the chair beside Dan’s bed and leaned on his hand. “What did he say before we got here, Phil?”

“Not much,” Phil dismissed. “Said the important stuff when you arrived. Conveniently.”

“Did he say when Dan would be moved into the ward?”

Phil shook his head.

“Are you okay?” Elise asked him, gentle and distant. Phil didn't take his eyes from him in the bed. _It hurts. Make it stop hurting, Phil, I don’t want to hurt anymore_.

“I’m fine,” he answered, controlled.

“Are you sure, dear? It’s okay not to be, you did find him,” Elise paused. _I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry for hurting you_. “Saved him really, honey.”

 _I know you’re different, you saved me_.

“Yeah,” There was a squeeze on Phil’s voice and he fought against it, digging his teeth into the skin of his finger, hand still over his mouth. “Suppose I did.”

“Phil,” Cat called his name. He didn’t look up. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

— _so sorry for hurting you_.

“Why don’t you kids go and grab a coffee?” Elise reached into the bag on her shoulder for her purse and handed Cat some coins. “There should be enough there, if I remember the café’s only cheap here.”

Cat smiled. “Thank you. Phil?”

Phil stood up from the chair and kept his eyes down as he walked out of the room. _Dan, I don’t know what to do—I’m so sorry_. Cat followed behind him and didn’t breathe a word as his silence suffocated all areas of her composure. Phil’s eyes were trained to his frequent stride and the patter of his feet against the white floor.

 _Nobody hurts you, not anymore. Do you hear me? I’m gonna protect you_.

A team of paramedics rushed past with a man, limp, on a stretcher.

 _To exist or to not exist_.

The café was located near the main entrance of the hospital. There was nobody a woman in there with two young children, a boy and a girl eating cookies. She looked sick with exhaustion and paranoia.

“Go choose a table, I’ll get the drinks,” Cat put a gentle hand on Phil’s back and nudged him forward. Phil watched the little boy as he sat down a few tables opposite, who had wild, curly hair and a grin so contagious even his mother—all worn at the ends—was smiling along.

 _You’re my wonderwall_.

There was a distant ringing in Phil’s ears that hadn’t yet learned how to stop. It didn’t sound like it ever wanted to. Phil sat in the cafeteria of the typical, sterilised hospital and tried to find anything real about it but the broken mother sitting with her final two pieces. It seemed unfair, that she was where was. That they all were. It seemed unfair that the earth had nothing to give beautiful people like the three strangers on that table but a couple cookies and a _nothing ever goes right for us_.

That family was gorgeous, Phil thought. They were impossible to describe. Flawed, but gorgeous.

“Here you go, babe,” Cat was suddenly there at the table and placing two mugs of coffee down, sliding one under Phil’s nose. She sat opposite him, back to the family Phil had let his eyes still on.

There was an expected silence between them again, eand Cat studied Phil like she was waiting for something to tell her it was okay to ask her next question.

Nothing came because nothing was okay—there was so much fucking blood—but nothing ever would be and so she asked her question anyway. 

“You love him, don’t you?”

Phil stared into the stillness of his coffee.

_Don’t fall in love with me, Phil._

“Don’t do this,” he managed.

Her voice was careful. “Do, what?”

“Try to make it pretty or some shit. Romanticise it, I guess. There’s nothing beautiful about this,” Phil’s fingers tightened around the edges of the table and he closed his eyes. “You can’t make it beautiful. It’s not okay to make this beautiful by asking questions like that. He’s hospitalised because he self-harmed so fucking badly and—and I knew. I knew he was doing it but never like this, I never expected this. Don’t take his blood and make it beautiful.”

“I’m not, I wasn’t,” Cat insisted quietly. “I was only asking because I thought maybe it would comfort you. Comfort him, too, to know that. I’m not romanticising it, but there are situations like these that put everything into perspective. That’s two different things.”

“When we were kids,” Phil began, with a tortured weight in his voice. It was all a bit suffocating and he had to choke it out into the air. “We were best friends. Clicked straight away, we did, because he needed a friend just as much as I did when I got to that fucking orphanage. We clung to each other—always have done—because we’re the only constant. Dan and Phil. Got a ring, huh? _Dan and Phil_. Two kids on a football field and two kids in a car to Scotland and two kids in a bed—in a bath and a bar and school and a tree and—”

Cat’s eyes were confused, but there was an understanding there that it was impossible to define.

“You have no idea what I’m saying, I know, because he’s the only one who gets it. He’s the only one who knows the significance of attics and red caps and playing football on a field at six on a September morning. He’s the only one who knows I don’t speak to my real brother all that often anymore and he’s the only who knows—” Phil got all caught up in the words and he sat there at that table with trembling fingers and tears on his face. “He’s the only one who knows me, just like I’m the only one who knows him. And it’s okay to pretend like I don’t feel anything for him until his blood is all over our fucking bath because he’s the kid I fell in love with, Cat, he’s my baby and my best friend and my heart and my home—”

“Have you told you love him?” Cat had her hands over Phil’s.

“Cat, _please_. Don’t be the one to make this about love.”

“But it is about love. It’s about your love for him.”

“No, it’s not. It’s nothing to do with how much I love him,” Phil didn’t even want to think about it. “I’m not going to sit here and talk to you about something like this when I had his blood all over my hands less than an hour ago. It makes me sick to think like that. I don’t want to think like that, to make this about myself or whatever the fuck it means to tell somebody you love them after they’ve hurt themselves like he just did. Surely, it doesn’t matter that I love him. Only that he doesn’t love himself.”

“I know that, sweetheart,” Cat sighed with a fragile smile. “Okay. But I think you need to think about yourself more, too. I know how much he means to you and how much this would have hurt today, but he’s obviously incredibly broken. He needs severe mental attention and I love you, you’re my closest friend, so I don’t want to see you suffer at his side through all that with him. I think you need to have some time away from him while he tries to get better—”

“No,” Phil was crying and the little kid with the curly hair kept looking at him. “He needs me to be there for him. This isn’t my fault and it isn’t his and you’re not allowed to sit there and tell me what to do. Of course he needs help and he’s going to get it, don’t think I’m going to let him refuse it. He’s got anxiety and depression and he never takes his meds. His head is a fucking wreck and I’m not going to let him heave himself through therapy and new medication and all that bullshit. Don’t ask me to leave him and don’t ask me if I love him. Everything hurts, you have no right trying to tamper with that.”

“I just think it would help him,” she said. “To either make him know you love him or let him do this by himself.”

Phil shook his head down at his coffee. “I already fucking kissed him, if you’re desperate to make this a shitty little fantasy.”

“What?”

“We kissed. Already.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Of course I’m not kidding,” he couldn’t speak. He was tired and angry and hurting. “We kissed loads. Last night, mostly. He wanted . . . more, but I said no. I said to wait because he wasn’t in a sober head but—But just stop now. Please. Thank you for your help today buy you don’t get to take what we feel for each other and try to connect it with this situation. No, I’m not thinking about myself because this situation has nothing to do with me. Or you. Or Bernie or Elise. I was trying to think of somebody to blame back home and I tried myself and I tried Tanner and Abi. But this situation is just about him. He did this to himself and the only way I’m going to make this about our feelings for each is in the sense that I care for him enough to stop you.”

“Phil, I’m not trying to—”

“I know. But you are. It doesn’t matter what the fuck I feel for him. Can’t you see? That isn’t the point here and I hate that you think it is. It’s about him,” Phil brushed his sleeve up under his eyes. “I’m trying so fucking hard to protect him, Cat, really I am. This hurts so, _so_ much but it’s not my place to say how I feel. It’s not okay to yell at him or make him feel any worse. To ask him why he didn’t just come and talk to me and get it out. I won’t ask him these questions because they’re shit and pointless and I know if he would have seen these things as an option, he would have done them.”

“Okay,” Cat said. “I get that. I understand why you feel that.” 

Phil just shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about this anymore. “I want to be with him,” he managed. “I don’t want to be sitting here feeling sorry for myself, I want to be in there with him.”

“We can go back when he goes up to the ward, if you want. But I think you need some space from the situation—"

“Why? For, what?” Phil paused. “In case I get depression, too? Cat, I’m all he’s fucking got. I don’t get to just want space from the situation, he needs me.”

“What are you going to do? About his depression? He needs professional help.”

“They’re gonna give it to him here. And, anyway, that isn’t up for me to decide. I don’t have any sort-of control over him at all, I’m just there. I’m always just there because, you’re right, he can’t do this without me.” _You’re so beautiful. Like, chaotically_. “I’d do anything to make him happy but when has that been important.” He stood up. “I’m going for some fresh air. I’ll see you back up at the ward.”

“Babe, just drink your coffee—”

“Cat, I need a breath. Not space, just—time to regulate my thoughts after this.”

“Yeah, okay. Okay, babe. You go.”

Phil turned away from the cafeteria and departed. As he went, the boy with the curly hair smiled at him and Phil was crying after he gave the toughest smile back. He just—He looked so much like him. The Dan with the curly hair. The Dan who’d up and left.

Phil began to follow the signs until, finally, he found one labelled the ‘main exit’ and the air was cool as he left the building. There were multiple parking lots situated before him and flurries of people to shape the early afternoon. Sunlight squared down into Phil’s eyes as he pushed his hands into his pockets and settled down on a little wall bordering the area. It wasn’t hot out, but it was mild. There was a simple breeze.

Phil didn’t want to know how to breathe because he’d gone so long without it. An hour or so, now. From the moment he’d seen Dan in the bath to that very second out there, looking like a train wreck amongst the public, he hadn’t breathed. His exhale was still caught in the back of his throat, tinged with shock and confusion and pain. And smudges of guilt across them all. When he finally did breathe, he wanted to be _sick_.

He wanted to scream and cry because it wasn’t enough, _he_ wasn’t enough, nothing would ever be enough. There were nurses smoking a few yards away and a little girl right next to them sorting through coins in her palm.

He rested his face in his hands and watched the world go. Watched it go with thoughts tangled around his head. Life was a mess, and it tried too hard to be everything else.

The sky had crashed down and everybody was drowning and Phil Lester loved a boy very, very much. 

Even more than he loved himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried really hard to put my thoughts on what a reader’s perspective of this sort-of poetically would be. It was incredibly, incredibly sad. Empty and bleak. It’s sad because it’s a sad story and it ‘tries too hard’ and I find a genuine release of emotion in chapters like these. I really tried to put emphasis on the idea of this situation **not** being beautiful. It’s not supposed to be. But the whole ironic idea is that the language surrounding it, is. It’s that symbolising juxtaposition.
> 
> The last thing I want to do was romanticise something like this because I _get_ how dark and real it is. I get that. But it was also the last thing Phil wanted to do. How does declaring something as soft and as safe as love help to make something so harrowing stop hurting? The answer, bleakly, is that it doesn’t. Love and mental health are not, and never will be, one and the same.


	19. XIX

**XIX**

After some time of failing contemplation, Phil headed back inside the hospital. Everything was still despite the rushes of people. Phil’s mind was slow and his feet were all muddled over where to move. He stumbled a few times against the white walls and ignored the momentary concerned glances from passing nurses.

When he arrived at Dan’s room again, there was a cluster of people surrounding a stretcher. Cat quickly informed Phil that they were moving Dan up to the ward.

Bernie was walking ahead with him and two nurses, and Elise came and linked her arm with Phil’s as they all got into an elevator. Cat cramped herself against the wall.

“It’s going to be alright,” Elise told him, reassuring.

 _Don’t you dare fucking tell me what’s going to be alright,_ Phil wanted to yell at her. _You’ve failed to show him you love him and you know it. You’ve failed to be there for him as his parents and you know it. He smokes. He drinks. He self-harms. Fuck you. I’ve had to protect him so fuck you._

Phil didn’t want to blame anyone because he knew there was nobody deserving but there was an anger fizzling under his skin.

They rode in the elevator up to the correct ward, and Dan was given a place in a little room concealed at the end of multiple. The nurses left to organise the room beside Dan’s for another patient being moved up. The fact that they were sat on a ward for the mentally ill fluttered presumptions of this next patient across Phil’s mind.

Dan was conscious on the bed, but he was drowsy. Elise approached him and put her hand on his hair, comforting him. He groaned and moved her away.

“Dan,” she said, tender. “It’s me, it’s mom—”

“No,” he croaked. “I don’t want you. I don’t want either of you here.”

Bernie took a breath. “Dan—”

“No,” he spat, and his chest heaved under the force.

“Just go,” Phil told them. “Wait until he’s ready. He has to have what he wants right now, what’s best for him.”

“Phil, I don’t think—” Elise tried.

“I’m okay,” Phil promised. _I’ll protect him better than you ever could_. “I’m fine, I promise. We’re okay.”

And so they left. It was scrawled across their faces that they didn’t want to, of course, but they did. Something told them they had to. Phil pulled a little chair up to the side of the bed so he could rest his arms near where Dan was laying. Cat was still stood in the corner, and she watched as Phil brought his hand to his face to run his thumb over Dan’s cheek. He didn’t even think it was right to touch him, didn’t he was _allowed_ to anymore. His failure buzzed and beeped like the little monitors around them and he _knew_ this wasn’t his fault but that didn’t mean he hadn’t failed.

“Phil,” Dan tore his name up from somewhere in the back of his throat.

“Hey,” Phil croaked. He was pathetic, he knew it. “You doing okay?”

Dan shook his head slowly and there was a disarray in the paling colour of his eyes. “I don’t—I—”

“You hurt yourself,” Phil whispered, and his knuckles faintly touched Dan’s cheek. “You remember it, yeah? They’re trying to make you feel better here because you hurt yourself. They gave you a lot of morphine.”

“I’m sorry,” Dan’s voice was strangled and he nudged his head up to Phil’s hand. He tried to meet his eyes. “I never, ever wanted to hurt you and I’m so sorry I did—I couldn’t—I tried to make it stop but it was too much and—”

Phil swallowed as he shook his head through Dan’s feeble attempt. “Shh, now. I don’t need you to explain. It’s happened, it’s done.”

“I didn’t mean to cause all this,” he was crying. “To hurt you and Bernie and Elise and—I’m s-so sorry I fucked up, I’m so sorry I—”

“Dan, stop,” Phil told him and dragged his knuckles over his wet face again. “You don’t need to say any of this. You don’t need to be sorry. The fuck even are apologises anyway, eh? They’re nothing. It’s okay to want to give them but they’re not needed here. Don’t waste time.”

“Can you stay with me?” Dan pleaded softly. Phil put his hand on the pillow and Dan lay down on it, finding comfort in his mere touch.

“Course,” Phil used his other hand to shift Dan’s hair behind his ear. “I won’t leave until you’re discharged.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, gorgeous.”

Dan closed his eyes. They were damp and cloudy and he breathed a fragile breath out of his parted his lips. A silence executed in the room, one made by the boy laying limp on the bed. His heart rate was slow.

“Phil,” he spoke again. It was an effort.

“Yeah?”

“I want—” he looked up at Phil’s face, nudging forward to touch their lips. “—want you to kiss me.”

“Dan, I—”

“No, _please._ You have to.”

“A kiss won’t help here,” Phil’s voice was soft around the hard words. “It won’t, and you know it.”

“When did you stop trying?” he whimpered. The air pulsed around the shameful fucking tragedy. “Holy shit, you’ve stopped _trying._ ”

“No, I haven’t. Don’t say that. I’ll always try for you, you know that, I just don’t think a kiss is the right solution to something like—”

“Me being depressed?” Dan choked. “No, it isn’t a solution but it’s not supposed to. I just wanted a kiss.”

Phil was holding his breath and released it quick, before gently touching their lips. He kissed perfectly in place and then at the corner of Dan’s mouth and when he inched his face back, Dan whimpered in a strong refusal. It said _stay_ and Phil’s heart settled back down against his mouth. This time, he grazed his fingers through the back of Dan’s hair and felt his sigh of relief. Phil mended all the ugly fucking wounds with sweet kisses across the cracks in his lips and it all tasted so much like failure, like acid, like everything a kiss at an inappropriate time was supposed to be. Dan choked apology after apology under Phil’s mouth and Phil didn’t know how to do anything but let him say sorry because he was _selfish_ in that moment—he thought maybe he was allowed to be—and the word came to bandage up one of his own wounds. So he stayed there, drying up all Dan’s blood with little kisses that _were not a solution._

“Everything is so shit,” Dan held tightly onto the fabric across the back of Phil’s shirt and pushed his face into his neck, breathing onto the skin. “I’m so tired and I feel so sick and everything is so shit. I just want to—It would be easier to—”

“Shh,” Phil smoothed a hand over his hair and gave him a final delicate kiss. “It’s gonna be okay, baby. You’re gonna be fixed.”

“I-I _can’t_ be, Phil.”

“Sure, you can,” Phil whispered. “The only way is up.”

Dan shook his head and whimpered again. As Phil hooked his arm under the boy’s thin body, Cat approached out of the corner of his eye.

“Dan?” she barely whispered.

Dan jolted and his palms flattened with a push against Phil’s chest. The morphine was strong enough in his system to move his wrists without too much pain, but he wasn’t strong enough within himself to force a shove into the action.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Cat cautiously touched his upper-arm. “I’m not—I won’t do anything. I promise, love, you can trust me. I know that’s probably really hard to believe, but you can. I want to help you two.”

“Help us with _what_?” Dan choked. His fingers were strong around Phil’s shoulders, keeping him close. It was an expression of his genuine fear, like he truly found a security in his touch.

“Everything,” Cat said. “I want to help you both with everything I can. Particularly you, with your mental health and—”

“No,” Dan shook his head, voice squeezing on the word. “We don’t _want_ your help. I don’t want you here, Cat.”

Phil knew that Dan’s rage for her was coming from that groggy place in his sore mind that still remembered she had ruined the trust between them. She had caused the nineteen days of silence. She had demanded answers from Phil and she had blurted it all out to Dan, and yet here she was telling him she could _help_ him. And Phil was too tired to fucking do anything but sit there and watch with an arm around Dan’s body.

“Dan, please,” Cat tried again. “I don’t want you to hurt anymore—”

“What the _fuck_ do you know about me?” Dan tried, he really did, to be anything but a disappointment. He shook his head and leaned up to bury his face into Phil’s neck, mumbling, “Make her go, Phil. Please, just make her go.”

Phil wrapped his other arm around him. “Dan, I don’t think she’s trying to—”

“ _Phil_ ,” he choked. “I said _make her go._ ”

“I know what you said, Dan, but I don’t think it’s necessary to have to—”

“Fine, then you can _both_ go,” His fingers and force were faint as he tried to push him away.

Phil sighed and let his arms rest on the space beside Dan’s thin body. “You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do. Fuck the both of you,” There was a struggle in his eyes as he grappled for all his failing energy and loaded it like bullets. But the gun wouldn’t shoot and it was another disaster, another disappointment, another washout.

“Dan, for God’s sake,” Phil rubbed his hands over his face. “I’m trying to be here for you but you’re so fucking—You never know what you want and when you do, it’s never right—”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Tears streaked the light flush of Dan’s cheeks. “Thanks a fucking _bunch_ , darling.”

“I wasn’t—” Phil breathed and put his hand on Dan’s leg. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. This whole thing is just a lot for me—for both of us. We’ve never been through this before and I’m fucking _exhausted_ , I don’t know what to think or say or do. Everything has to be right because letting everything be wrong is what caused this.”

It seemed the words consoled Dan, in a strange way. He had his eyes screwed shut when he repeated, “Please, just make her go.”

And so Phil pinched the bridge of his nose and turned to Cat. He started on a breath but that was enough for her. For Cat, that smart girl.

“I get it,” she said with a smile. “This is Dan. I’m not gonna win this, nobody would have a chance against him. You’d choose him every time.”

“No, Cat, it’s not like that—”

“Phil, trust me. It’s okay,” she started walking over towards the door. “I know how much you care for him and I sort-of deserve this, after what I did. What I caused between you. I’ll call you later or whatever.”

“Whatever,” Phil mumbled, echoing her but she was already gone.

“Don’t try for her,” Dan murmured into the white pillow supporting his head. His voice was drowsy but he was still trying. “She’s not worth it.”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Dan,” Phil sighed as he sat back down on the chair.

“She ruined so much for us. She hurt me and she—”

“I know and I just got rid of her, didn’t I?”

“Why are you being an ass to me?” Dan stared at him, voice weak. “Is it because of what I did?”

“No,” Phil insisted instantly. “It’s nothing to do with what you did. Like I said, I’m just tired. Maybe try and sleep a little now.”

“Why, so you can go find Cat?”

“No,” Phil’s tone was calm, but tired. Always tired. “So you can feel remotely better.”

Phil didn’t say anything else as Dan closed his eyes and breathed in deep. He watched him there, leaned back in his chair, for the entirety of the fifty minutes it took for Bernie and Elise to dare an entrance. They were waiting there in that room for hours, not really _for_ anything but an update on Dan’s condition. Phil’s phone was running low on battery, so he switched it off and left it in Elise’s purse. He didn’t like shutting Cat out like he had, not after all she’d done to help.

It was gone six that evening by the time a doctor, Beecher, appeared.

“Ah,” Dr. Beecher nodded towards a sleeping Dan. “Finally able to rest, I see. It’s always a challenge when there’s a patient with alcohol poisoning to keep them awake. Their natural instinct after having such a high dose of it is to sleep, but that’s often the worst thing for the body. The levels will just continue to rise.”

“But he’s okay to sleep now?” Bernie’s eyes were drawn down into a concerned expression.

“Oh, absolutely. Considering the fact that he’s on a drip, his levels are balancing out. He’s stable now but it’s happening very slowly, I must make you aware,” Beecher propped his glasses up higher on his nose. “Daniel had a lot of alcohol for a developed male, let alone a sixteen-year-old boy. What he did could very easily have been fatal. Now, taking into account the other serious injuries he came here with, I’m going to the make the assumption that fatality was what he was aiming for.”

“You’re saying you think he’s suicidal?” Elise’s voice softened on the final word, dulled down significantly. Phil tightened his fingers around the arms of his chair. _Of course he’s fucking suicidal. Do you know nothing about your son? Has today not taught you anything?_

“I’n afraid that’s exactly what I’m saying Mrs Teller,” Dr. Beecher halted to analyse the desolate silence. “Does Daniel have a history of mental illness?”

“He was diagnosed with anxiety,” Bernie informed. His hand was there, comforting, on Elise’s shoulder and Phil wondered where the fuck _his_ comfort was. Where Dan’s was, too. “Generalised Anxiety Disorder. He must have been about ten at the time.”

Dr. Beecher jotted something down. “And was he prescribed medication for this?”

“He was.”

“Does he still have that medication?”

Bernie nodded.

“Does he still take it?”

Another nod. Phil shifted in his chair and cleared his throat, and Dr. Beecher glanced over at him.

“Actually, he, uh—” Phil swallowed. “He doesn’t take his pills. He hasn’t for ages. Say they make him feel weird and, I don’t know, usual stuff. He flushes them down the toilet.”

“He does _what_?” Elise gasped. “Phil, why didn’t you say anything about this?”

“I wanted to. I swear, I did. But I didn’t want him to feel like I was going against him. Things like that—added pressures—are the last thing a mentally ill person needs.”

“Indeed,” Beecher gave him a nod. “That’s a very important thing to understand, uh—”

“Phil.”

Beecher smiled. “Phil. How are you related to Daniel?”

“Brother,” Bernie commented. “Adopted, though. Not blood related.”

There was something so comforting about that extra information.

“What treatment is available for Dan after this?” Elise questioned, looking all worn at the edges. His blood was still soaking her fucking bath, Phil realised then, and lumps of bloody toilet paper to go with it.

“Not taking his pills could have been some of the cause of this,” Beecher said. “Does he go to a public school?”

“Yes, but he hasn’t been attending. It sounds ridiculous, but he’s been sort-of like a robot for weeks now,” Guilt struck Elise’s face. “I should have known something terrible like this was going to happen, I should have removed all the alcohol and potentially harmful objects from the house but I didn’t _think_ —I guess you never do. He hasn’t been eating properly, he’s rarely left the house and we’re almost certain he smokes.”

“Do you know if he’s ever self-harmed before this episode?”

Elise shook her head. “I’m not aware he has, but he wouldn’t ever let me in on that. I can’t answer that.”

Beecher nodded. “Daniel’s condition, to me, looks very close to major depressive disorder. It's clinical depression. People with this illness are prone to harmful or suicidal thoughts and will often intentionally inflict pain on themselves. Dan’s behaviour is self-destructive, something typical of MDD. It usually also leads to changes in diet or appetite, sleeping habits and general health. I only need to take one look over at Daniel to know this is linked with his physical health.”

Phil’s fingers ached around the arms of the chair to reach across and touch Dan. _You’re so sick, precious boy. So, so sick._

“ _Depression_ ,” Bernie tasted the word on his tongue and shook his head to himself. “Where do we go from here with this?”

“I’ll come and see you again tomorrow morning to discuss the options. Right now, I can give you the obvious. Antidepressant medication,” Beecher said. “But, let’s not get into that this evening. This has been a heavy day for your family and I think it’s best to try and sleep some of it off. We’ll be keeping Daniel over night, as I’m sure you've assumed.”

Bernie and Elise then proceeded to thank the doctor for his time, before he left the room. They spent half an hour pointlessly going back and forth with a drowsy Phil about who was going to stay the night and who was going back. They insisted one of them had to go and clean up the house, in the slight chance he was discharged tomorrow. It was a ridiculous idea really, that they believed it could possibly happen.

They decided, eventually, that Elise was staying and Bernie was going. He left around seven and Phil and Elise sat in a comfortable-but-not-really silence as they drank coffee from the vending machine. Phil refused to go home, saying it was important he stayed because Dan had asked him to. That was all he gave them to go on and he thought it was okay.

He couldn’t give two fucks if it was or wasn’t anyway.

Around ten, Elise fell asleep in her chair. And not long after, Phil did too. But it was a gradual process. Eyelids dropping, _fuck, no, wake up_ , eyelids drooping again, asleep. Distant sounds of wheels against white floorings and hushed voices provided unfamiliar background noise. Phil struggled to find any peace at all in it at first, but his levels of exhaustion increased high enough to take him under regardless.

><

At nine minutes past two, Phil woke. It was the middle of the fucking night and his neck ached from the position he’d been slumped back in the chair. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and noticed, only as he shifted, that Dan’s bed was empty.

Holy fucking _shit._

Elise was still asleep in the corner, it looked like she’d not so much as turned the opposite way. Phil quickly stood up and opened the room’s door with caution, shutting it softly on his exit. He wandered down the corridor of the ward and passed a nurse with a smile and grey eyes.

“Are you alright?” she asked him.

“You haven’t seen a patient leave their room, have you?” he returned. The yawn in the back of his throat spoke of a challenge. “About the same age as me but lighter hair. Male. Really thin. Bandages on his—”

“Oh,” The nurse clicked her fingers. “Daniel . . . Teller, is it? He came out of that room like a lost puppy, he did, and said he wanted to sit somewhere quiet. I know, odd request. There’s a chapel just connected to this ward so I directed him there. Don’t worry, I checked he was alright to be off his drip. He said he’d only be ten minutes.”

“Can I—” Phil ran a hand through his messy hair. “Where’s the chapel?”

The nurse gave Phil a brief set of directions to locate the chapel and he headed on to there. He hoped, as he found his way, that Elise wouldn’t wake up and have to find her two sons in a hospital. Phil didn’t even have his phone on him as he crept around into the little chapel; he had nothing but a deeply tired mind and a lovesick heart. Dan was sitting in the chapel near the alter with his head down and his hands on his knees. Approaching from behind, Phil noticed the way his hospital gown dipped down below his shoulder and revealed a stretch of skin. Faintly bruised, weakly tanned.

“Dan?” Phil said his name softly, and the boy turned. There were purple smudges under his eyes and nothing but his lips moved when he smiled so devastatingly. The tight bandages around his wrists were facing directly up to the ceiling of the chapel. It was arched, wood constructed by smooth fingers.

“Hey,” Dan’s voice was but a whisper in the calm air. Phil was winded at the simplicity of it all because they didn’t do simple, they’d never been able to and yet—

Here they were. Two boys in a chapel, cradled by a religion they didn’t believe in.

“Hey,” Phil returned, from where he stood in the shape of the entrance. There was a soft filter of light spilling over the back of his neck from out in the corridor. “Did you need some space?”

Dan shifted in the pew to face Phil and shrugged his shoulders on the turn. “Something like that. I think I need a lot of things,” There was a cragginess to his voice. It was being tended to by sorrow and a desperate exhaustion and Phil felt the whisper of war from where he was standing. It crawled across his skin and up into his ear to recite stories of frustration and defeat, sort-of like a survivor.

Phil stared at Dan, and a moment passed. One and then two. Two and then three. He didn’t think he wanted to think anymore. He didn’t think he thought. much of it at all.

“Phil?” The name came quiet in Dan’s little voice. The shadow of impeccable naivety cast across its surface reminded Phil of the mornings they’d spent playing football at the orphanage, of all the times he’d settled his nerves with a promise of _don’t give up_ under the sleepy sky. Phil was still stood in the entrance, arms dawdling at his sides. Thinking too much. It was a contagious disease, that.

_Don’t give up._

What _shit_.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think I’m crazy?”

Phil didn’t falter at the question. “No,” he said, too tired to find a word to define his tone of voice. “I don’t think that at all.”

“You do though, don’t you?”

“No, Dan. I don’t.”

Dan’s breath was a huff. Phil watched him shift in the pew and mumble, “Come sit, if you want,” through the silence. And so Phil sat. He shuffled next to him and they both remained forward, faint touches of their thighs enough. Dan’s wrists were bandaged tight and—

Fuck, it was all just so _ugly_. There really was nothing else to it. His lips were cracked and his eyes were empty and he was the definition of so many hideous words, so many grim phrases that came and collided against the failing surface of Phil’s defence. Phil’s supposed protection. But where the _fuck_ was all that, he asked himself, when Dan sat and slashed his wrists? Where the _fuck_ was _nobody hurts you, nobody’s allowed to_ and— 

And where the _fuck_ was he?

“God thinks I’m crazy,” Dan suddenly spoke, and his tired eyes were on the ceiling.

“God?” Phil tried. His throat was dry and sore. He was sure there was still blood under his fingernails, even if just a smudge. “You—You believe in _God_?”

“I believe in distractions,” Dan whispered. “You should try believing in them, too.” 

“I do,” Phil whispered back. It was all very much like a secret, the conversation, like God truly was listening in. “We all do. We convince ourselves they’re real important and all that.”

Dan nodded and continued to stare at the ceiling. “It’s all such fucking bullshit.”

“What is?”

“This. This situation. That question. My statement. Our story.”

“I think it’s alright,” Phil muttered, distant. “I think we’re alright.”

“Must be nice. I don’t remember the last time I thought anything was alright.”

“You should try me. I’m alright.”

Dan’s lips lifted, slight but definite.

“And therapy, too,” Phil’s suggestion came quiet. “That’s alright.”

Dan shut his eyes. “Don’t. It’s not.”

“How would you know if you’ve never been?”

“Because—” he paused to swallow, hard. Phil watched his throat bob. “Because I just know. It’s not for me.”

“I think—” Phil crossed his fingers in his lap and glanced up to the ceiling in a momentary prayer. “I think you need to have the help they offer you, Dan.”

“What help? They haven’t offered me shit.”

“Not yet, no. But they will. Of course they will. You do _know_ why you’re in here, right?”

Dan shook his head. “I just don’t want it. I don’t want to give a stranger the things it’s taken me so long to give _you._ ”

“Maybe it would help you to get it all out—”

“I _have_ got it all out. When I told you about my dad in Manchester, I felt better for a while. But it wasn’t even a day before I was crying again. I’m a fucking mess and if talking’s all I needed to feel better, I would have done it years ago.”

“So,” Phil shifted a little, and their thighs pressed closer. “Do you know what _does_ make you feel better?”

Dan sniffed on a tilt of his head downwards. His voice was dimmed by the fading daylight sitting right next to him. “There are a couple things.”

“And what are those?”

“You,” Dan whispered. “And writing stuff.”

“Writing stuff?” Phil echoed, reaching to brush his hand over Dan’s hair with a reassurance. “Like, what?”

“Like, about the things that hurt me. And the things that I find peace in. The universe and all that.”

“You write about the universe?”

“Sometimes, yeah,” There was an embarrassment glaring in his voice. Phil didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable, but he wanted to remain on this subject. It was important they lingered around all that made Dan _happy._

What a catastrophic word that was.

“What kinds of things do you write about with the universe? What do you think’s peaceful about it?”

“Everything. It’s just . . . infinite. There’s something really beautiful about going in one direction and never reaching an end. Lightyears and all that. I think there’s an element of intrigue in it, too. But mostly beauty. A peaceful beauty. I usually just write shitty, little stories that probably make no sense to anybody else.”

“That’s alright though, like—” Phil thought for a moment. “It’s important to have something only you understand. Something only you get. I don’t think it’s special otherwise.”

“Hhm,” Dan hummed. “Think this is why a therapist wouldn’t work for me. They wouldn’t talk about the universe.”

“They would if you wanted them to.”

“I think maybe _you_ should just be my therapist.”

“Well,” Phil managed a smile at him, and his breath caught. “I could do that for you.”

Dan moved to lay his head on Phil’s shoulder and settled there. It was still and it was simple and it was everything the previous day had not been. Everything foreign. Phil’s heart peaked with a thought and—

“Dan?”

Dan was breathing slow and weary. “Yeah, babe?”

Phil’s lips brushed over his hair and he muttered, “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

There was a moment of quietude. Phil let it be.

“Hollywood,” The answer softened into the unusual but welcomed serenity.

“ _Hollywood_? Really?”

“Hhm. I . . . I always wanted to be an actor. I’d never be able to—not now, not after such a mess I’ve made of myself. But I really did think I would be when I was kid. I have no idea why. I had no confidence.”

There was a vague memory of it in Phil’s head.

“Dreams don’t have to have any trace of reality,” he told him. “It’s what makes them dreams, my lovely.”

Dan leaned further into Phil’s side—incapable of moving his wrists too much, it seemed—and Phil wrapped an arm around his waist. His eyes were idle over the bandages, over the suffering.

“Do they hurt?” he dared the question and Dan sniffed again.

“They’re starting to a bit more. I don’t know, it’s probably the morphine wearing off or something.”

Phil nodded to himself. “Yeah, that makes sense. I’m sorry you’re hurting.”

“It’s not your fault, I did it to myself,” Dan paused and tilted his face upwards to nudge their noses. “Can I ask you for something?”

A frown settled over Phil’s face. “What is it, love?”

“It’s a bit stupid, like—Out of character. I don’t know. You don’t have to say _yes_ , it’s just that everything’s so shit and I’m desperate,” Dan paused to run his tongue over his cracked lips. “I was thinking we could—Can we pray?”

“ _Pray_?” Phil tried. It was a strange tasting word.

Dan shook his head and his eyes fluttered. “It’s stupid, I’m sorry—”

“No, no,” Phil settled his hand on the small of Dan’s bony back. “We can pray. Of course we can pray. It sounds like a nice idea. It’s quite peaceful here.”

“Do you know any?”

“Prayers?”

“Yeah, I never—I wasn’t raised like that. Wasn’t _raised_. Obviously.”

“I used to go to church before I came to the orphanage,” Phil tucked some of Dan’s hair behind his ear. “I could take us through it.”

“Okay,” Dan closed his eyes and rested their foreheads together.

The chapel was silent, and Phil’s chest rose.

“Our father, who art in Heaven,” Everything was flat. “Hallowed by thy name.”

_It hurts, it hurts, IT—_

“Thy kingdom come—”

_I was wrong about you, too._

“Thy will be done—”

_Promise me._

“On Earth as it is in Heaven—”

_You’re okay, I’m here._

“Give us this day our daily bread–”

_Not ever your fault, Phil._

“And forgive us our trespasses—”

_Your hugs are the best ever._

“As we forgive those who trespass against us—”

_Stop it, he’s not worth it._

“Lead us not into temptation—”

_Come here._

“But deliver us from evil—”

_You look sort-of sick yourself._

“For thine is the kingdom—”

_Do you still believe in God?_

“The power and the glory—”

_You mean everything to me._

“For ever and ever—”

_And stay he would._

“Amen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Lord’s prayer at the end is so peaceful and consoling to me, even as an atheist. I don’t know what it is about it. Maybe because I grew up as a Christian.
> 
> Anyway- What did you think, lovelies? <3


	20. XX

**XX**

Dan stayed. He stayed for a long time, as it were, and made a makeshift home out of a psychiatric department with soaking-white walls and patients with stitched wrists. 

He remained inside for one too many weeks, under careful eyes. They worked with him—the therapists he wasn’t given the option to refuse—on something called ‘cognitive behavioural therapy’ and gave him a heavy dosage of Prozac, an antidepressant. They prescribed him the medication on a frequent basis so his body became accustomed to its use before he was discharged. They also watched over him when he took his pills for anxiety.

Phil was there throughout his stay. The only time he allowed himself to go home—for a change of clothes—was when Dan was first admitted to the ward and they ushered away all visitors to complete a physical check-up. Over the seven days, he undertook multiple therapy sessions in which Phil was also not present. He wasn’t allowed to be, but he waited outside. Amongst the familiarity of the colour white.

Dan didn’t talk a whole lot in the sessions, apparently. At least, that’s what was reported back to the family. He denied the occasional ‘accusation’, as he referred to it as, and made little progress in that area. Dan told them the scars on his wrists were because of earlier attempts at self-harm. He told them the scars on his stomach were, too. All over his body, where there was pain he hadn’t inflicted, he told them he had. And, with the way they were pressed on his skin, it was impossible to say otherwise.

When his wrists began to slowly heal under the tight bandages, he started to write again. Phil brought his notebook up to the hospital for him after he’d seen that he was inking words on his bare arms. Like a fucking _addict_ , desperate for a moment of peace. Phil wondered if it was like torture for him to live in such white, sterilised walls and not be allowed to write on them.

After some time, he was discharged from the ward. The psychiatrists spoke with Bernie and Elise about the plan fixed in place for Dan; he was signed up for the therapist in school every Tuesday and Thursday and they were told to keep a profound watch over him. Clear the house of potentially harmful objects, assure he eats meals—They even offered a ‘stop smoking’ advertisement. It was all a bit artificial, overdone. Their voices droned out like they were little robots working around the words and Phil wanted to tell them to do a better fucking job. But he didn’t.

He didn’t. It was rare he did anything but try to make sense of the hopelessness in his veins and before Dan returned to school, he tried so hard to make sense of him. Because knowing him for the amount of years he had meant nothing; seeing him grow meant nothing. He’d been hospitalised for self-harm and an alcohol overdose and Phil just wanted to stain the areas of his skin he’d tried to tear open with kisses that tasted like _let me love you_ between careful touches of a damp cloth.

On the first night of being discharged, Dan and Phil lay together in their room. Lights off, sheets around them. Dan said he was homesick, and it was the first time Phil had heard his voice in so long.

He wasn’t saying a whole lot in any circumstance anymore. That was his thing now. He’d do as he was told and not consider an argument because he’d learned that you didn’t need to say anything to make people listen to you. It was the trick of the mind, above all, and Dan’s mind had threads hanging off it like a worn fucking sofa but it knew that people believed never saying anything to be the same as wanting to. And even though he didn’t want to say anything, even though he really did have nothing to say, to tell them that would be to confirm their suspicion. So he stayed quiet. 

He was a clever boy, Dan Howell. Damaged and clever. Phil had begun to understand that the two often came together.

“Why are you homesick?” Phil whispered, as a response.

“I don’t know. I just am. It’s weird, that, because I don’t think I’ve ever known home. But my heart’s missing something.”

“Could be sleep,” Phil’s reply was pathetic, he knew that. But he wasn’t thinking much of trying anymore. “Maybe rest up.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” Dan hardly spoke. “Even though I have to go back to school on Tuesday.”

“Why not Monday?”

“Elise said she wants me to stay off. I don’t know. I didn’t complain.”

“Yeah, but—But that means I’ll have to be away from you.”

Dan breathed softly, face still turned from Phil. “I know, I’d already thought about that. Don’t know how to really put into words to her that I wouldn’t survive the day without you though.”

“You would, you could get through it,” Phil tightened the loose arm around his waist and felt him lean back into his chest.

“Couldn’t. It would fucking suck. Can you, like, find a way to stay off with me?"

“Yeah, okay,” Phil didn’t argue, didn’t want to, didn’t want Dan to have to. He continued to nudge his nose into his shoulder until his baggy shirt dipped down over the skin. Phil pressed still lips to the marks there and then formed them into a kiss. “You really are beautiful, you know?” he mumbled, low and honest. He dragged his kiss across his shoulder. “There are so many things I want to say to you, Dan, and they’re all so hard to say. Is there anything you want me to get you, baby?”

“Hhm?” Dan’s voice was threaded with velvet at the soft touches of Phil’s lips.

“Anything you want me to get you?” Phil repeated. “Glass of water? Or a hot chocolate to help you sleep?”

“No,” Dan turned to his head to lean into Phil, as though he was desperate for the little pieces of affection. “No, darling, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

“You sure?” Phil mumbled, grazing his lips from Dan’s shoulder slightly up his neck. He whimpered and reached down under the sheets to wrap their fingers.

“Stop making me swoon over you,” Dan weakly accused, and gave a thick sound somewhere from the back of his throat when Phil continued to run kisses over his skin and breathe in his scent. “It feels so much better than Abi when you do that. So much better than I ever had with her.”

“Don’t talk about here here,” Phil whispered, up into his ear. “We sleep here.”

“Sorry,” Dan exhaled. “Just—I’m done with her. I don’t want that with her anymore. It feels so amazing when you kiss me like this. Like everything in the world just slightly out of place comes into place. Like it doesn’t matter who I am or what I feel, it just matters that you’re here and you’re kissing me and you’re saying these words to me. _She_ doesn’t make me feel like that.”

“Are you done with her?”

Dan sighed as he rolled over and faced Phil. There was such a sadness to him. “She hasn’t been to see me. Hasn’t even called.”

“I know, love.”

“But it’s strange, like—” he had his eyes closed. “I kind-of wish she had done. I don’t know why.”

“Maybe you really _do_ love her.”

“No,” Dan peered up through hooded eyes. “I don’t. I know I told you I did but I wasn’t sure then. I have _you_ now and—Yeah. You’re my priority.”

“I’m your priority?” Phil nudged their noses. “How flattering. I mean, _finally_.”

Dan breathed through a roll of his eyes. “You always were, I just didn’t admit it.”

“Because you don’t like admitting things.”

“Or pretending. I have no idea what I like or what I want, but those two are recurring. Strangely, often together.”

“You’re just weird,” Phil mumbled, with traces of a smile. His chest ached with a far-fetched relief when Dan managed to return it, and it fucking _hurt_ when he reached across to put their mouths together. Phil’s hand remained around his face, thumb touching across his cheek as he kissed across his lips.

The world was _screaming_ around them but they didn’t hear it, couldn’t hear it. Phil’s stomach tightened around his insides when Dan’s hand fell to his chest and clenched around the fabric of his shirt. “Phil,” he breathed his name. “Phil, I—I want you like this.”

“What?” Phil muttered against his mouth.

“I want you like this. Like, _properly_ ,” Dan shuffled from the kiss to bury his face into Phil’s shoulder, fingers still around his shirt. He was anchoring himself, it seemed. “Want you to be my . . . _boyfriend_.”

“Your boyfriend?” Phil squeaked. He felt faint with the concoction of surprise and excitement. The emotions so light in the air felt inappropriate, after such a hard time, but the word in Dan’s voice was indescribable. Their faces were so close and _boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend_ was lingering in the small spaces between them.

“Would you be?” Dan was watching him with frightened eyes. “Only between us, just so I know it’s, like, official and—Well, obviously not in front of everyone—I know that sounds weird, but it’s just that they all think we’re brothers. If they didn’t, I’d—I think maybe we could make it _that_ kind-of official—”

“Hey,” Phil hushed Dan’s ramble. “I can be your boyfriend. Fuck, of course I can be. Don’t think about anybody else, this is between us.”

“Thank you,” Dan paused to kiss him, so sweet and so endearing. He threaded his fingers up through Phil’s hair and said, “I had to do that. I keep getting these urges to just fucking marry you.” 

“Well,” Phil smiled. “You could do that, too.”

Dan sighed. “Would be a bit weird. But I mean, we could just convince ourselves we already are. You know, the whole last name shit.”

“Sometimes I forget we share that,” Phil admitted, quieter.

“I do, too. Don’t fret it,” Dan closed his eyes. A moment of peace fluttered past the silence. “So, you’re my boyfriend. It’s weird, that, like—More real? I think you technically have been for a long time, we just chose to ignore it. But now it’s legitimate. Now it’s—”

“A gay fucking love affair,” Phil recalled. He didn’t know why he bloody did.

The words seemed to change something in Dan’s eyes, afflicted with the serenity laying there. “We’re so fucked up, Phil,” he said, and his voice was isolated.

“It’s alright. We’re fucked up together.”

“I’d say I’m a little worse than you, pretty boy.”

“You’re just sick. I’m not, I have no excuse.”

Dan shook his head and reached down to entwine their fingers to say, “You’re all I think about. You balance out the pain.”

And then he ran his thumb across Phil’s hand under the sheets. It was a little bit like _see, I can do this_ and _never let me go_ at the same time.

Both were equally as beautiful.

><

They didn’t stay away from each other for long. In fact, as the hours of the next day scuttled by, they stole little kisses and touches all around the house. In the empty kitchen, Dan reached under the table to take Phil’s hand between both of his and squeeze it. In the empty living-room, he reached across the sofa to wrap his hand around Phil’s neck and his mouth tasted like _look at us now._ Phil’s skin was still tingling with the feeling of him the night before.

When he returned to school, he stayed around Phil, who stayed around Chris and Cat. The threads around the group had been stretched—some too far—but it was nice to be able to sit in the same spaces of the atmosphere they used and have similar conversations. Dan, still short of words, didn’t hold his head up long enough to see the way people stared at him. There were whispers around the building of his ‘breakdown’ and his ‘issues’ and Tanner was most probably the spark of the fire. He’d developed a hostility towards Dan that spoke in his glares across the hallways and his mumbles every time Dan was drawn to attention in class.

It wasn’t nice to see, when he was dealing with so much. He sort-of clung to Phil a bit, so much so that even when they were walking down the hallways to their next class, he was pushed up into Phil’s side. Not enough for it to be obvious, but enough for it to say _I need you._

Phil needed him, too.

Whenever he went to his therapy sessions, he’d tell Phil there had been no improvement. Because there hadn’t, it was reported back to Bernie and Elise. He rarely ever spoke a word and, yes, he was taking his pills but it was to avoid an argument. Too much confrontation for his mind. It was broken and tired and he continually told Phil throughout the days that he just wanted to go to bed. He continually told him he didn’t want anything but to go home because home was Phil’s arms around his body and Phil’s lips around his throat.

One afternoon, Dan wasn’t there at lunch. The lesson before, he had not shared with Phil or Chris or Cat and he didn’t answer his phone.

“He might have been feeling sick, Phil,” Cat told him, noticing his anxious fingers drumming against the table-top. “Gone home or something.”

“He’d have at least text me if he had,” Phil rubbed his hand over his face. “What if—He might have done something again, Cat, tried to hurt himself or—”

“Now stop, okay?” Cat interrupted him. “You can’t be thinking like that, there will be a reasonable explanation as to why he’s not here.”

“Sure there will,” Chris nodded from across him. “Maybe his phone’s died and he can’t let you know where he is.”

“He hasn’t been away from me since he was hospitalised," Phil said. “He hasn’t let himself. He’s told me, he couldn’t do it by himself.”

“Are you sure he hasn’t got a therapy session today?” Chris frowned.

“Positive.”

“Well,” Cat sighed. “I guess all we can do is wait, babe. He’ll call you, don’t worry.”

Phil’s heart was clenching around paranoia. He tried to consider the other possible outcomes of this dreaded scenario but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. He tried to call Dan again, but it rang out.

“Piece of shit,” Phil cursed and tossed his phone across the table. “Why would he not think to call me? He must know it would worry me to—”

“Hey,” Chris interjected, nodding over Phil’s shoulder. Phil turned in a synchronisation with Cat and found Dan standing on the opposite side of the cafeteria, jacket done up to his chin and Abi’s fingers touching at his face.

“What the hell is he doing over there?” Cat seethed, instant.

“And what the fuck is he doing with _her_?” Phil’s fingers tightened around the edges of the table. Dan’s back was to them and Abi’s light touches turned to two arms around his neck in a tight hug. Phil’s breathed hitched— _boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend._

“He can’t just—” The blue-eyed boy couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. “Who the fuck does he think he is, going back to her?”

“You guys aren’t . . . ” Chris began and when Phil glanced back to him, he was frowning. “When have you ever been, like, _actually_ dating?"

_Boyfriend._

“We haven’t,” Phil snapped. “What the hell does that matter, Chris?”

“It doesn’t, it doesn’t—I was just saying. If she wanted him back, he couldn’t give the reason that he was dating his brother.”

“We aren’t _brothers_ , for fuck’s sake,” Phil tugged on the edges of his hair. “And we aren’t dating. But he’s sort-of my boyfriend, maybe, I don’t—Just stop talking about that. Stop confronting it. We don’t like that.”

“He’s your boyfriend?” Cat put her hand on his shoulder.

“He’s—We spoke about—” he looked back to Dan with his head on Abi’s shoulder. “How can he think this is okay?”

Phil stood up from the chair and Cat tried to push him back down as Chris grabbed his arm. “No, Phil, come on,” she rationalised. “Going over there is a bad idea, babe, just sit down.”

“How can I just sit down when he’s over there with _Abi_?”

_You’re my priority._

“I know it must hurt, babe. But there’s a time and a place to talk to him about this.”

“Definitely,” Chris agreed. “And he’s sick, too, remember? He’s all drugged up on pills and shit. He’s probably not thinking straight.”

“Don’t make excuses for him,” Phil shrugged them off him and sat back down.

“I’m not," Chris glanced to where they were over Phil’s shoulder. “He looks really fucking sad, you know? That means nothing because he does with you, too, but I thought I’d just mention it. How sad he looks all the goddamn time.”

“He was hospitalised because he drank too much alcohol and slashed his wrists, Chris,” Cat sighed. “Of course he looks sad all the time.”

“Do you think she even knows he did that?” Phil’s voice angled in realisation. “Abi. I bet she fucking thinks it’s her place to come back and fix the wounds that aren’t hers to fix.”

Cat nodded. “That could be it. Enough people are talking about what happened. My guess is that he’s too tired of everything to push her away, you know how detached he’s been lately.”

“I still want to talk to him about it though,” Phil’s tone was still hard, hurt. “I want to hear what he has to say for himself.”

And he did just that. Nineteen minutes past five that evening, it happened. Phil had to stay over after school to help Chris with some project for Biology—much to his vocalised disapproval—and when he returned home, Dan was curled up in his bed. Always was when they were home. The curtains were drawn and the lamp was on and the sheets were up to his chin, eyes screwed shut like he was that kid trying to wish the remote into his lap. Trying to wish the happiness into his head.

“Dan?” Phil dropped his bag down onto his own bed and started taking off his jacket. “Dan, hey. Can we talk about something?”

“If it’s about Abi, I don’t want to hear it,” he mumbled the words and had Phil not been approaching, he wouldn’t have caught them. He stopped at the end of his bed and folded his arms.

“What do you mean? Because you know what I’ll say?”

“Because I _don’t want to talk about it._.”

“Well, I do,” Phil hit back, firmer. Dan shook his head and tightened his fists around the bedsheets up at his face.

“Phil, please—”

“Please, what? _What_ , Dan? You just—You asked me to be your fucking _boyfriend_ and then I see you—”

“Stop shouting," he pleaded, voice kneading at melancholy. “Just please stop shouting, I-I don’t want you to shout at me.”

“You won’t fucking _listen_ to me otherwise,” Phil got out between clenched teeth. He heard Cat’s soft plea— _stay calm, stay calm_ —but his mind played him clips of Abi’s arms around him like it was a TV showing reruns of those children’s cartoons that hurt to watch because they made you think of a time when everything was beautiful and nothing hurt. Phil’s skin itched and fingers scrambled to turn it off because _no, no, I don’t want to watch this, I don’t want to feel this_. Dan’s inability to do anything but shake his head against his pillow forced the gears of Phil’s irritation tighter, so they made that awful sound.

“You went _back_ to her after everything?” he spat at him. “What, so I’m just your bit-on-the-side? There to clean your blood when it leaks and pray for you when you need it and kiss you when you—”

Dan continued to shake his head and there was a moment of silence before he whimpered into the sheets at Phil’s tone towards him.

“No, _you_ don’t get to fucking cry, Dan!” Phil yelled and moved forward to bend down and clench the covers around Dan’s face, forcing them out of the way. “You can’t go between the two of us like this is some fucking game when I’m here dying to be with you and she didn’t care enough to even come to the hospital when you were in a goddamn _psychiatric_ ward—”

“I’m sorry!” Dan squeaked. Emotion was strangled around the corners of the words and his eyes were desolate, fingers shaking and eyes heavy.

“You could never understand what I feel for you,” Phil was rough in pushing himself back from the bed. “I would give my _life_ for you and you can’t so much as stick around for five minutes—”

“I d-didn’t know what to do, Phil!” Dan looked so broken and so helpless there as he put his hands to his face and ached in volumes of _sick, sick, sick_. His pills weren’t fucking helping him. His therapy wasn’t fucking helping him. But Phil didn’t want to think about all that right now, he just wanted to channel all his pent-up rage into words he didn’t mean.

It was a release, of sorts.

“You have no idea how _shit_ it made me feel to see you with her today,” Phil interrupted himself with a dramatic breath. “She had you before I ever could and yet you _still_ go back to her—”

Dan opened his mouth. “What could I have done to—”

“I wanted you to fight for me!” The words came and stung at the air between them. There was so much of it—air and space—and they couldn’t fucking reach other.

“I don’t have the _energy_ to fight,” Dan sobbed. “I’m so sorry, I’m tr-trying so hard—”

“You’re only trying for _Abi_ ,” Phil growled, harsh and hostile. “Because she’s a girl and she’s pretty and you like that she makes you look good because I never could. I will never be able to be anything but that guy everyone assumes is your brother and that guy you used to call your best friend before you started calling him your enemy. I’m too much of this guy and that guy to ever be anything you want me to. I can’t change this, so if you don’t want me—Tell me. I can’t ever be done with this—done with wanting you—but I can find distractions. Things that will make me forget we ever did what we did the other night. Do you not want me?”

“N-No, I—”

“You don’t?” There was a crumbling to the end of the words, a shattering under the letters. Like somebody had removed the scaffolding.

“I _do_ —” Dan looked shaken and saddened by Phil’s tone, by the way he was speaking to him. “I want you, Phil, I promise I-I do—”

“Then _choose_ me, for fuck’s sake, Dan,” Phil ran his hands over his hair. “I know it’s so fucking difficult but don’t you dare expect me to stand there as you kiss your little girlfriend after you asked me to be your _boyfriend_. Choose who you want to fuck, Dan, because I can’t deal with—”

“Don’t say it like that, please don’t—”

“Why? Because you don’t like it? You fuck her or me—”

“You think that’s all I want from you? Sex?” Dan choked on the words. It wasn’t the first time this questioned had stained them.

“It’s hard to believe you want anything but sex or at least something along those lines when you let me kiss you and touch you and then just run back to your girlfriend. How the _fuck_ is she still your girlfriend? Where the fuck was she?” Phil clenched his fists at his sides and moved back down to fist the sheets again, tearing them from Dan’s face. “Where was she in all of this shit, Dan? Where was she when you broke down about your father touching you and your mother failing? Where was she was when you had nightmares about him coming back for you? Where was she when you went through months of utter _shit_ , the rock-bottom of everything you’ve ever known? Where was she when you cut your fucking _wrists_ in our _bath?_ Where was she, Dan? Where is she now?”

“Y-You don’t understand what I’m trying to say—”

“Yes, I do. You’r incapable of telling her where the hell to go because then everybody would think you really _had_ lost it, dumping a pretty girl like Abi,” Phil’s laugh was cruel as it soaked into the air. “And, God forbid, anybody say anything about Dan Howell. God forbid they spread rumours about you and call you _gay_ and _queer_ and—Hey, just like the old times, remember? When we were kids and I was there and I fucking stood by you! I watched over you growing up so I could catch you before you fell too hard to find a way back up and I came with you to Manchester—I saved you from bleeding or choking to death and I saved you from—”

Phil gasped for breath and spluttered, “I _saved_ you! Every fucking time, Dan Howell, I saved you and she will never be able to—”

“I love you,” Dan’s voice was so suffocated under the harshness of a sob that the words didn’t even get out the first time. They were everything they were always going to be. Messy. Failing. Painful. A scatter of right and wrong and everything in between but he pushed himself up in the little bed to bury his wet face into the arms hugged around his legs and Phil didn’t see Dan, the guy with the scarred wrists and the smoke on his tongue and the girl’s perfume on his skin. He saw _his_ Dan, the boy with the collection of novels and the sleep in his eyes and the yearn to learn to play football. And his anger didn’t diminish at the words, it seemed like just near _everything_ did. All the pain and the fear and the defeat and the insecurities and the envy. All the missed opportunities and the skims of fingertips. The bedsheets and the dirty laundry and the tears and the lamps and the finger-links gone hand-holds and the attics and the music and the books.

Dan and Phil, it always Dan and Phil. Even when nothing else made sense, that did. Even when their lips didn’t fit right together, when they screamed and punched walls and drank too much alcohol. Through the hazy heads of a depressed boy and his lover, their names scratched together made sense. It had never mattered that nothing else did and it never would.

“I love you,” It came again, clearer but muffled by his knees. “I love you so, _so_ much and—”

“Choose me,” Phil, still there at Dan’s bedside, shook with the urge to wrap him in his arms. _I love you_. “You have to choose me, Dan, because we’re not getting out of this otherwise.”

“You have to choose me, too,” he cried into his arm. “You are the only that m-matters to me, Phil. I could never love anybody the way I love you and, holy _fuck_ , do I love you.”

Phil’s body tingled at the words and he managed, “I have chosen you. I chose you the day I met you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. That day—morning—we met, I chose you,” he told him, digging the words up from somewhere deep in his chest and laying them out with _look at this, look at what I’ve done for you_. “You can’t say I didn’t. I’ve been there through everything and I could never leave.”

“I always thought I had to keep trying,” It was all soaked in Dan’s tears. “I always thought I hadn’t done enough to make you feel anything for me—anything important—and I know it sounds so ridiculous but I-I felt like I had to _make you_ love me.”

“Dan,” Phil ran his hands over his hair and down his face, breathing out a sigh that spoke of his tire. “How can you _not_ see it?”

“I do,” he whispered, strained. “I see it. I just don’t want to believe it because everything I’ve ever believed in has just turned out to be false.”

“Like?”

“Family,” he choked. There was such agony in his eyes. “God. Faith. Happiness. Everything’s fucking shit, Phil, and I’m frightened to even believe _that_.”

“Why do you keep going back to Abi? Why do you—”

“Because I’m scared that you’re wrong. Wrong in that you want me. And I’m scared that I’m wrong in that I want you. With wanting Abi, I know that’s already false. I know it’s just lie after lie but that’s okay because I feel confident in the fact that it will never change from that.”

“But, with me—You don’t want to be sure that we want each other because that could change?”

He nodded with a strangled breath. “I feel like I’m in this constant confrontation with myself. I fucking hate everything about who I am. I-I don’t want to want you but I do—I do so much. I’m trying so hard to make you want me back and I keep failing when I realise there’s no point, no point to that or anything—”

“Stop. Dan, stop,” Phil sighed and snuck his hand around Dan’s face, fingers brushing at his hair. “You’re getting it all muddled up, okay, you’re not making any sense.”

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed and dragged his sleeve over his eyes and nose. “I want to make sense for you and I’m sorry. I’m trying t-to hold on.”

“You do make sense for me,” Phil whispered, lifting his face so he looked at him. “I’m only angry because you went back to her and never even tried to talk it out with me. I was worried about you because you weren’t answering my calls.”

“Pl-Please don’t be angry at me.”

“Dan,” Phil moved his thumb to run over the damp cheek. “You’re focusing on the wrong thing. You went back to her.”

“Because I’m scared,” he cried. “How can _you_ not see that? I’m so scared and so empty and I don’t want to fucking lose you because you’re everything but I c-can’t handle people calling me names and—I know you t-think it makes me weak but I’m fucking terrified of this, Phil, I’m terrified of who I am because it’s been used against me all my life and—”

“Okay, Dan, okay,” Phil pushed his hands under Dan’s arms and lifted him—so light and so fragile—up against his chest. “I wasn’t trying to say you’re weak. I know how much you hate who you are and how hard it must be and I was wrong to say half the shit I just did, but it hurt me to see you with her.”

“I love you,” Dan’s arms were tight around Phil, clinging onto him because he needed him to patch up the fresh wounds he’d just created.

“Dan,” Phil nudged his nose down his wet face. He was tiring, this boy. He always said the wrong thing but always said the right, too. “You’re not understanding what I—”

“I am,” Dan’s fingers moved to wrap around Phil’s and Phil felt them shaking there together. “I am, Phil, I promise I’m—Please, j-just say it back. You haven’t said it back and I need you t—”

“No, Dan, you need to let me be mad at you. Even if I didn’t mean most of it, just blurting that you love me isn’t fair, Dan.”

“I do!” His voice cracked. He started to sob again as he tore his fingers through his messy hair. “Fuck, y-you don’t believe that I—”

“I do believe you. Look, come here,” Phil tried to still him, but he was breaking all over the sheets. He wrapped his arms around Dan’s trembling body— _fuck it, don’t cry because of me_ —and hugged him to his chest. “Listen, baby, listen to me—”

Dan put his face against Phil’s shoulder to muffle his desperate cries. “Y-You don’t—”

“Shh,” Phil smoothed his hand over his hair and ducked his face to mould their lips. “Dan, please don’t think that. I—Fucking hell, of course _I love you_ , I’m just trying to—”

“Please,” Dan shook in Phil’s arms. “Don’t be mad, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Phil kissed him softly again, voice shadowed with a sigh of defeat. “Okay, just calm down. Let’s stop now.”

Dan gave a soft cry. “I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t,” he touched their lips, then moved his mouth across Dan’s cheeks to stutter across all the tears. “Promise you, you won’t ever lose me. I love you to death.”

“Y-Yeah?” he shifted his eyes and they were brimming with water, throat thick.

“Yeah,” Their mouths were close, always so close now. Phil kissed him and dragged his tongue across his bottom lip, feeling the fingers in his hair tighten. “I always loved you, Dan, all along. You must have known that.”

“Didn’t,” he choked. “Fuck, are you _sure_?”

Phil breathed a laugh that was both inappropriate and bittersweet. “Of course I’m sure, you idiot. Feels weird saying it but that doesn’t mean I’m not sure.”

“I’ve waited so long for you to say it to me.”

“I’m sorry you had to say it first. I guess, in a sense, I was scared too.”

“Not anymore?”

“No, I still am,” Phil said. “We both are but that’s okay. Scared is our way. It’s how we fell in love.”

“Maybe we didn’t fall,” Dan mumbled, smile small but evident. “Maybe we _flew_ into love.”

Phil returned the smile, but it was thinner. “It’s going to be hard from here, you know? You and I.”

Dan shook his head and leaned across to push his cracked lips against Phil’s ear. “ _Per aspera ad astra_ ,” he mumbled. And kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There isn’t long left of this story now. I’ll make the prediction of 2-3 chapters left! That makes me so sad, I don’t want to wish it goodbye :(
> 
> Oh and btw there may be a day or so delay (might not be an update basically) tomorrow because I’m working on editing the draft of the ending, which will take some time. Thank you <3


	21. XXI

**XXI**

The best and worst days of Phil’s life occurred a few days later. Weekday. Late afternoon. Two thousand and six. It had been a prolonged few hours and Phil was trudging the walk home alone from school when his phone rang. Dan’s number was dancing on his screen.

“Hey, lovely,” he said into the line, upon answering the call. “How’d the therapy go?”

“The same,” Dan answered. His voice came smooth down the receiver, constructed with a softness that wasn’t like what was customary. It must have been obvious, this change, or Phil wouldn’t have acknowledged it. “Are you busy tonight?”

Phil used his hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s gleams glaring down as he crossed the road. “When am I ever busy?” he responded. “Where are you?”

“You always have enough homework to last you the night, I can never get a look in,” There was a smile in Dan’s voice. So easy and so simple. “I’ve just finished with the session.”

“Oh. So you’re not with Abi?” Phil didn’t even want to say her name. He’d been trying to avoid it for a while now, after all the mess she’d made.

“I told her I was out tonight,” Dan said.

“Why? You don’t have to, we’ve been over this. You need to just stop lying to her and—”

“I’m not lying. I am. And so are you.”

“Sorry?”

“You know that hotel just down the road from the garage Bernie’s mate works at? The guy who used to come over with his wife on a Sunday?”

Phil frowned. “Uh, yeah—Wait, what hotel? There’s a hotel down there?”

“Yeah. It’s fairly new, they built it a couple years ago.”

“Oh, right, okay. I know the one. What about it?”

“Meet me there,” Dan softly urged, oppressed excitement tangled in the serenity of his voice. “I’ll text you the address and the room.”

“You bought a room?” Phil halted on the little street. “Dan, darling, what are you doing?”

“Being romantic,” he laughed. “Come on, you’ll love it.”

Phil stomach tightened. _God, this boy_. “You want me to meet you in a hotel room?”

“Yeah, we’re gonna spend the night,” Dan told him. “Just us. Together.”

“Dan, you’ve lost your mind.”

He laughed, and it was gorgeous. “Tell me something I don’t know, pretty boy.”

Phil smiled, sunlight in his expression, and shook his head. “What about Bernie and Elise?”

“Fuck them. They won’t care.”

“Yes, they will.”

“Leave them a message or some shit. Tell them we’ve gone to London again.”

Phil snorted at the dry humour. “No. We can’t just run away to a hotel for the night.”

“Babe,” Dan sighed, and Phil’s skin prickled. “This is, like, the only chance we’re ever gonna get.”

There was something so strange about that. The way he uttered it, the way it sounded. It was impossible to place what it was. But he was continuing before Phil could lay all the pieces of it out and decode them, “Just come meet me and you can text them later, when we’ve thought of something. They’re not expecting you back, are they?”

“I don’t think so, they shouldn’t be. They might be out themselves.”

“Well, then. Please, come meet me,” There was a longing smeared across his tone. “I want to just have a night with you. We can be us.”

 _We can be us._ Phil struggled to swallow back the words, like he had done every other plea. He twisted his free hand in his pocket and then moved back to smooth it across his forehead. “Okay,” he exhaled. “Okay, I’ll come. See you soon.”

Dan, as he had promised, texted Phil an address and room. Phil _knew_ looked like an idiot when he finally rounded up at the hotel, school-bag on his back and uniform tight around his skin. He scratched at his collar, nervous, as he crossed the short distance to the hotel and came through into the reception after about fifteen minutes of walking. There was a young man behind the desk who smiled—acknowledging his presence and probably other attachments also—as he approached.

“Afternoon,” A frown manoeuvred through the man’s words. “Evening? Early evening.”

Phil smiled. “I’m looking for a room. Already booked, my friend’s up there now.”

The man nodded at his attire. “You’re pretty young, eh?”

“Well, yeah, but—” Phil wrapped his hands around the straps on his bag. “Of age.”

“You sure?” The smile was intriguing.

“Positive. And you?”

“Am I of age?” A laugh. “Most certainly, kid.”

Phil leaned forward with his palms pressed onto the desk and looked up at the man with strong eyes. “Find me my room, sir?”

After briefing the man on the room number, he directed Phil to the correct floor and offered him another key. Phil declined, knowing Dan must’ve had one in his possession. So he rode up the elevator in his school uniform and found the room, taking a breath before lifting his knuckles against the door. He didn’t know why his heart was clenching with such anticipation, but he thought maybe his ribs were going to give way when Dan opened the door. He was stood, still, in his own uniform.

“Hey,” he breathed. “Look who it is.”

“You’re off your rocker,” Phil slipped past him into the room and found it to be remarkably similar to the one they’d shared in Manchester. Double bed. Small dresser. Attached bathroom. Phil shrugged his bag off and left it on the floor as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

Dan shut the door and headed through into the room. “I must say, I think it’s an excellent idea,” he said, leant up against the wall with a thin smile. “Just thought it would be good for us.”

“What exactly do you have planned here?” Phil looked to him. His voice was tight with interest and affection, but the second was always prominent.

Dan shrugged. “Just . . . us time. We can do whatever. Talk about whatever.”

He walked over to the bed and settled down, looked up at Phil and asked, “Do you want to order room service?”

Phil scratched the back of his neck. “Room service?” he echoed.

“Yeah,” Dan put his hands in his lap, legs crossed. He gave a warm smile that softened all the edges of Phil’s cautious heart. “I’ll order us something.”

“Will you now?” Phil mumbled with an equally gentle smile. He sat down on the bed and crawled across to Dan to sit opposite him. They looked like children there, eyes and smiles mirroring and the sun setting in a kaleidoscope of orange shades in the distance.

“We could order some milkshakes. Or cakes,” Dan’s grin developed around the words.

“Or, you,” Phil stretched forward and nudged their noses. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of smoke clinging to Dan’s uniform. “I could order you.”

“You already have me. You’ve had me for six years.”

“Is that so?”

“Hhm. It’s so.”

Phil moved to lay down on the bed and Dan watched him as he rolled onto his back and put a hand over his head. “Come give me a hug, gorgeous,” Phil whispered, other hand reaching for him. “I want a hug.”

Dan’s smile was still there, evident on his face as he moved to rest on Phil’s chest, pushing his head so it rested below his chin. Phil curled the sheets around them and pulled them over Dan’s body so they were wrapped together. Everything they’d ever wanted, needed, was together in the same place in that same moment.

“You’re still my best friend,” Dan’s words came after he’d lifted himself up to touch his forehead with Phil’s, hands moving from his chest to around the back of his neck. His eyes were so careful and so soft, and even though he looked like a train wreck, he wasn’t a disaster. Not to Phil. Never to Phil.

“Was that you friend-zoning me?”

Dan shook his head with a smile to fucking _die_ for. “Just thought I’d tell you. That whole thing we had when we were kids, friends forever and all that. It’s still forever. This is still forever.”

“It is,” Phil murmured. "Forever is right here. Fuck everyone else, thank you for asking me to come here. I don’t know what I was thinking."

“You were thinking rationally because you always do. It’s a positive thing, that, I’m sorry I always fuck it up.”

“I think I like your irrationality. Sometimes. I mean, I do when it equates to a night in a hotel room with my favourite person in the world."”

Dan inched his face forward and caught Phil’s lips in a brushing kiss. “I’m your favourite person in the world?”

“Who else would it be?” Phil mumbled into the kiss.

“Anyone but me? I don’t deserve that title.”

“You deserve everything you think you don’t,” Phil ran his fingers down Dan’s back and bunched them around his shirt. “There are still so many things I need to teach you.”

There was a shift in Dan’s eyes, not a startling one but Phil knew the pattern of the mossy brown in enough detail to know when something had changed. Flicked out of place, even if just for a second.

“Let’s just kiss for a bit,” Dan was putting his lips back on Phil’s and moving them softly.

And Phil thought _sure, we can do that_ as he threaded a hand through the back of Dan's hair. Dan turned his face to force a new depth to the kiss and squeeze on their hearts, and Phil felt him breathe hard against his mouth.

“You okay, baby?”

Dan hummed like an adorable fucking child.

“You sure?” Phil leaned up to kiss his forehead, then that space of skin over his cheekbone. “You can tell me anything, you know? You must know that by now.”

“I do,” Dan whispered. His eyes fluttered. “I love this. Being here with you. Existing with you.”

“It’s somewhat of a beautiful thing.”

Dan scoffed, suddenly teasing. “Poetic.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Phil tried to conceal the eruption in the pit of his idle being at Dan’s quick response, but failed at the immediate lift of his lips. “Stop being so fucking charming,” he muttered. “You’re rather good at this romantic thing, aren’t you?”

“When I want to be. It’s a skill.”

“So you apply it when you desire.”

“Exactly. I’m applying it now because I want you to kiss me,” he breathed across Phil’s lips again. “Kiss me so much I feel okay again.”

“You don’t feel okay?” Phil’s face fixed into concern as he tucked a lock of hair behind Dan’s ear. “Why not, baby? What’s happened?”

“Just the normal shit. It ached all the time, you know, and I’m never okay. You know I’m not.”

Phil gently pulled Dan’s head down to rest it on his shoulder, and he turned to kiss over his hair. “Well,” he mumbled. “I hope you can be okay for a while. I hope you can be okay here with me.”

“I’m as okay as I ever will be when I’m with you,” he returned a whisper.

“I know. Me, too.”

Dan laid on his back and stared at the ceiling. It wasn’t silent then, but it was quiet. Stilted. Phil thought about the orphanage, for whatever fucking reason. It was never home, never even close, but he’d found his home within it and it therefore meant quite a lot to him. London had always appeared so dull in comparison to that pretty kid with the smudges of colour across his skin. Phil thought that maybe everything was dull before he’d met Dan. No football or best friends or maybe-boyfriends. No pain either, but even pain burned in a distinct red that felt better than patterns of grey after grey after grey. Even this _really fucking hurts_ felt better than _why can’t I feel anything?_

The word _nothing_ rang out like a missed call and Phil reached to wrap his arm around Dan’s stomach, to shuffle into him. A distraction.

_I believe in distractions. You should try believing in them, too._

“How long do you think we could lay here?” Dan asked quietly.

“As long as we want,” Phil paused. “Do you know, like, that universe you told me about? The one that belongs to us?”

Dan hummed.

“Where do you think it starts?”

“What do you mean?”

“Everything has to start somewhere,” Phil pushed himself up onto his elbows to peer into Dan’s eyes. Their faces were so close and the sheets were pulled over them. “The Earth did. We did. We were born on whatever day in whatever year we were. What about the Dan and Phil in that universe? Where did they start?”

“They started when we did,” Dan murmured. "Or, at least, some of them did. There’s a whole load of universes, see. A whole timeline of them. Universe after universe after universe. That means Dan and Phil after Dan and Phil after Dan and Phil. Maybe one of them are still ten and eleven. Maybe they still live at the orphanage. Maybe we didn’t even meet there, maybe we met on some little English road in the middle of October and we hated each other. Maybe we’re twenty and twenty one and we pass each other at a store and don’t so much as look at each other. Or maybe you drop something and I help you pick it up. Or maybe we’re celebrities and we live in some flat in London. Or maybe my dad never abused me and you grew up with your uncle.”

“Do you think maybe there’s a universe where nothing hurts? Like . . . at all?”

“Maybe,” Dan nodded, and he dragged his thumb across Phil’s lips. “That one where we’re still laying in my bed at the house after getting back from Manchester. I think there are a lot universes where everything’s still, and to me that’s the equivalent of painless.”

“Still, how?”

“Still, like we never move. Every little action we take in this universe, it’s paused and never played again in another. We could travel back to that time you taught me how to kick a football properly and it would be the same as we left it,” Dan nudged their noses and their lips brushed. 

“Or we could just stay here,” Phil slid his fingers between Dan’s and squeezed, and put their mouths together to mutter, “We could sleep here right now and pause it,” against his lips.

“Please,” Dan said, curling back up into Phil’s side. “Please, pause it. I don’t want to see what tomorrow brings.”

“It’s okay, I got you,” Phil kissed his temple and rested his lips there as he switched off the lamp in the small hotel room, and the room stumbled into darkness. It was late afternoon, but it was okay. There was an equal share of exhaustion between them. An equal share of love and frustration, an equal of share of longing to wish it all away. 

It was painless to fall asleep together there. It didn’t even bother Phil that he was still in his fucking uniform. Dan there at his side was enough to soothe him into a slumber but, when he woke again, his collar around his neck was tight and irritating. He stirred on the mattress and rubbed the incoherency from eyes to find Dan laying, face mushed against the pillow and staring at him. His pink lips lifted and he whispered, “Hey, beautiful,” all hoarse and thick with sleep. 

“Hey,” Phil mumbled, on a yawn. He stirred slowly. “What time is it?”

“About two. One, maybe.”

“Were you watching me sleep?”

Dan’s smile was faint. “Might’ve been. You’re pretty as fuck.”

“Thanks,” Phil shuffled across the bed and his eyes were closed when he felt Dan’s fingers come around his face to lift it up and touch their lips in the softest of kisses.

He did it again, and then again. Slow and controlled and tender.

“Are these your sleepy kisses?” Phil breathed.

“They’re my I’ve-waited-so-long-to-kiss-you-awake-at-two-in-the-morning kisses.”

Phil smiled and his eyes fluttered. “I like them. Do it more.”

So Dan did. They were wet and moderately quick, but didn’t take long to develop into a kiss that was both deep and gentle. Phil parted his lips slightly and a soft whimper tumbled from his lips when Dan dragged his warm tongue across his mouth. He reached his hands behind Dan to rest them on the small of his back and mutter a thick, “Baby,” like it was all he could manage.

Dan sighed at the name and moved his kiss down across Phil’s jaw.

Phil threaded his fingers through Dan’s hair with a strong yearn, a strong _please, keep doing that_. He tasted like he hadn’t ever before—there was love and home and safety, but there was also a deep craving in the way his fingers clutched at Phil’s collar. Their mouths stuttered into frantic and desperate movements, and as Dan lay back against the pillow, he dragged Phil down on top of him.

“Fuck,” he choked, as Phil ran his lips down his neck and softly dug his teeth into the skin. He felt Dan’s chest heave and his throat contract when he whined, “Phil, that feels so good there.”

Phil continued with developing rough kisses and Dan’s fingers pushed into the back of his neck as he pleaded for his touch. It was like _fuck everything, I want you so much_ and the sheets rustled through the silence of the dark room as they ached to be near one another. Phil inched his face back to touch their foreheads when Dan started on his collar, unbuttoning it from the top.

They kissed slowly there, breathing out into the other’s mouth. Dan’s fingers moved down four buttons, unclipping them as he went, and Phil turned his head to deepen the kiss. He didn’t need to fucking say anything as he felt Dan’s cold fingers come and pull the shirt down his shoulders, and his tongue roamed his mouth with a desperate tenderness. The shivers nestled at the bottom of his spine fluttered up the current.

He gasped when their kiss broke and pushed his face into Dan’s neck.

Dan’s touch was cool and gentle on his bare skin, and he mumbled, “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long,” as he tickled his fingers down Phil’s chest. “You’re so gorgeous, I’m sorry. I don’t deserve you.”

“Hey,” Phil’s voice was suffocated under his desperation. He pushed a kiss onto Dan’s slightly-open mouth. “Are you sure you’re ready? For me to . . . see it all?”

“Yeah,” Dan gently pushed away everyone that had ever held him back and pushed himself up on his elbows. “You do it, okay? You—You take it off me.”

“Are you—”

He nodded through the words. “Yeah, babe. I promise.”

Phil managed a smile. “Of course you want this, at two in the goddamn morning.”

“Do you not want this now? Do you want to wait some more?”

“I want to know that it’s right for you.”

“It is. I promise. I’m so overwhelmed by my feelings for you and I need to get them out like this. I need to show you what I’m ready to do now.”

“Okay, baby. Okay,” Phil placed gentle his fingers against Dan’s top button and unclipped it. He did the same two more times so he was just three down, but it was enough to see the scars flawing the perfect stretch of tanned skin. Before moving any further down, ye put his lips to Dan’s ear and held them there.

“No matter what he did to you, Dan,” Phil held a kiss on his skin as he carefully continued down his shirt. “You’re beautiful. You’re so fucking beautiful and you should be so proud of yourself. You’ve come so far.”

Dan had tight arms around Phil’s bare back. He was shaking, just slightly, and Phil kissed the skin under his ear. “Don’t be scared,” he soothed, fingers slowing around the buttons. “I got you, love. It’s me, it’s Phil. Nothing you could ever show me could push me away.”

“H-How could you—” Dan was crying when the shirt was off, laying on the sheets. Phil didn’t move his face from there at the side of Dan’s head, but he wrapped a protective arm around him. He was vulnerable and broken and he clung to anything stable because he needed to be still. “How could you want me, Phil?”

“Because you’re fucking _stunning_ ,” Phil felt the shiver come across Dan’s skin at the word. Their chests were almost together. “You’re so gorgeous and you’ve never been able to see it. You could have anybody you wanted.”

“No, I couldn’t,” Dan shook his head. “Look at all my baggage.”

“And look at _me_ ,” Phil nudged his nose against his neck. “It’s not pushing me away, is it? When has it ever?”

“I-I don’t how you could ever want this—” he held two strong hands on Phil’s back to secure him in place, preventing him from seeing what he was so ashamed of. “I don’t understand how you could ever think I deserve you.”

“Shh, baby,” Phil inched his face up to catch Dan’s lips. He kissed him there, slow and devoting. He was so fucking in love, it hurt.

“Phil, I—” Dan croaked. “I’m ready. You can see. But please, b-be gentle. Be kind. Don’t be horrible, don’t _laugh_ —”

“Darling, I won’t, I would never,” Phil slowly moved his other hand to run down Dan’s bare back and felt the chills rise under the little touches. “Do you want to guide me? Will it make you more comfortable?”

Dan shook his head and he had his teeth over his bottom lip. He reached down and took Phil’s hand to spread his fingers out over his chest. Phil dared a look, inching back and peeking down at Dan’s stomach.

It wasn’t like he was anything but gorgeous. Because this was Dan, for God’s sake. This was the boy Phil had been in love with for six fucking years and the scars scratched deep into his skin—over his chest and his stomach and down his thin arms—were just more pieces of him to treasure. Different areas to kiss and streak patterns of love. He'd known for so long that these existed, but only when he actually saw them did he realise how surreal it had felt before. He touched his pale fingers over the marks and Dan started to breathe again. His eyes remained screwed shut, tight.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted you to find the courage to do this,” Phil told him. His voice was knotted with an emotion from so many years ago. Somewhere, a grave had been dug up. “The only thing it feels like I’ve ever needed is to touch the parts of you you think are ugly and tell you how wrong you are, how wrong you always have been. Nobody can make you believe the things you don’t—not me, not your father, not those piece of shit bullies who took you so far from me, you weren’t even sure I loved you—and I can’t say I know how much it hurts because I don’t. I could never, ever know what it feels like to suffer this kind-of pain. But what you are, Dan—who you are—is so special. You are single-handedly the greatest person I have ever met, and nobody can make you believe the things you don’t but I’m more in love with you than I would ever let myself admit so fucking listen to me when I tell you that you’re beautiful. And I will never regret meeting you, no matter what happens from this moment forward. You might believe so many things about yourself, but you’re the best fucking that ever happened to me and if you don’t believe that then, holy shit, please start trying.”

Dan’s little fingers were over his mouth, stifling his sobs somewhere deep into the words and when they were all said and done, Phil laid them both down so he could kiss along the cracks in his lips. It looked like Dan was desperate to talk, to say anything at all, but he couldn’t get anything out. Phil kissed him and mumbled, “You don’t have to say anything,” against his trembling mouth. “Just shut up and let me love you.”

So Dan did. He whimpered under the art of such intense flattery and, for the first time since they’d met, he allowed himself to let go. And in letting go, the word ‘allow’ became the word ‘surrender’, like how the word ‘love’ became the word ‘me.’ That night in that strange hotel room, when they found one another under the clammy sheets, was the greatest night of all. They shook with the ecstasy of physical paradise and Phil knew, as he inhaled the scent of cigarette smoke and coconut shampoo, that he had never been anyone else’s and he would never want to be.

Their story was so rare and so beautiful and the sound of silence may still be the sound of silence after the gentle echo of _I love you_ through a broken boy’s head, but there was a time when the silence did not exist. And maybe something ceasing to exist, in the hazy state of such existence, was what mattered. Phil hadn’t fallen in love with the places he’d been with Dan. He hadn’t fallen in love with the orphanage or Scotland or Manchester. In the story of Dan Howell and Phil Lester, the corners of the earth in which they’d ventured had just been background noise. A little like a _fuck you_ to the lamps on the bedside tables and the books between the fingertips and the attics beneath children’s feet. And a _fuck you_ to the promises and the fear through the silent bedrooms and the moments they had ceased to breathe because—

“Hell, you are gorgeous.”

But, “You are chaos,” too. “You are me and I am you. And we are defined by the things we are not and what we are not is what we are. Because if you listen hard enough, my love, ‘it is what it is’ will sound exactly the same as ‘it is what it is not.’”

Their fingers clung to the sheets like they were ships and these were anchors because this was a rough fucking sea, but there was room for two in the boat. Dan was aching beneath Phil, moving to fight against the urge to breathe under the shower of love. He didn’t want to breathe, he didn’t want to be who he was. There was so much of him to love. Too much, sometimes. But he was incredible like that. He was gorgeous and he was _alive_ and that, in itself, was a remarkable thing.

How curious and how extraordinary it was that Dan was existing beneath Phil in that moment. He was his own little whirlwind of chaos and their love stretched all extensive and elastic to the corners it hadn’t before had the courage to reach. It spurted scraggly fingers to collect the forgotten remnants lost in the winds of tragic yesterdays, of bloody fingers and Manchester showers. Of alcohol tangled in sweet kisses that did and always will taste like _I love you._

It was sensational, the feeling of Dan. The feeling of being as close to him as physically possible. Phil’s fingers clutched at the sheets balled around them because he couldn’t endure the probability of everything broken in the world mending itself. The day after forever came and shuddered between their love because forever wasn’t long enough to describe a connection like it. It was worth the anger and the frustration and all the moments of pain. It was worth it, one million times over, just for the few minutes they lasted in that state of pleasure. A desperation, clad in cotton sensation.

Phil choked that he loved him and buried his face down into his neck, staggering through into, “And always and always and a—”

His voice dwindled away under the force of a tight cry as he felt Dan contract under him with a desperate moan. Phil followed right after him and slumped down on his back, arms tight around his sweating body. Their breathing was infrequent and desperate, but everything in Phil’s head was drowsy with its seclusion from the weight of the world. In the bed, so many loose ends were being tied by worn fingers under frequent breaths of _finally_. Phil wanted to say _we did it_ but he thought he might stumble over the syllables, and he didn’t want such a pristine moment of bliss to be destroyed by something so imperfect.

“Phil,” Dan mewled his name, as Phil rolled from him and took him into his chest.

Phil kissed in the centre of his forehead, voice of a serene volume. “Hey there, my brave boy.”

“Hey,” Dan’s eyes were lidded and there was a composure to his face that Phil hadn’t seen for a long, long time. He considered the possibility that he’d _never_ actually seen Dan wearing the look he was in those proceeding moments. Clouds were cast across his eyes and his lips were wet, slightly curled at the edges. He breathed slow and sure and he said Phil’s name again, like that was all he could find and conjure from anywhere. It was like their ribs had collapsed and all those emotions they’d concealed beneath and between them had come raining down like fucking Pompeii, had it bled feelings instead of clumps of ash.

“What is it?” Phil asked, croaky and somewhat overdue. His bones were still tingling.

“Guess what?” Dan was gaping at him like how Phil remembered he had done the first time he spoke to him about something he truly loved.

“What, baby?”

“I think I’m—I might be _happy_ right now,” Dan was propped up on his elbows. There were scars all over his stomach and chest and wrists. Pain smudged across the breaks of skin and he still looked like a wrong answer, like something somebody had tried to erase but here was Dan and here was _happiness_ and here was finally a size that fit. He wore it like a prince, he did, like everybody was looking at him and, _damn_ , they should have been because it was flawless. It was beautiful and it was heaven.

“ _Happy_ ,” Phil tried the word on his tongue, and he’d never cried with a smile before that moment he dragged his mouth against Dan’s.

“Happy,” Dan echoed, and Phil caught the tear smudged under his eyelid.

He shook his head on a watery smile of such elegant admiration. “I’m so proud of you, Dan Howell. So fucking proud, I’m not even gonna try and explain it. It’d take me infinite time to write the story.”

“Then you better get started,” Dan voice trembled with its foreign satisfaction. “So I can read it in infinite time, too.”

“But you’re too busy being happy, my love. Please, just be busy. Don’t be still.”

Dan was crying. So much, but he was so gorgeous. Smiling and crying and _happy_. “Thank you. Thank you so much, for everything. I don’t have enough words to ever tell you what you’ve done for me and how grateful I am for all of it, for every fucking second of it. All the times you’ve hugged me and all the times you’ve kissed me and—And all those times you taught me how to play football. All those times you saved me from Tanner and Abi and my mom and dad. Thank you for listening to me—all the times you have, even if I made no sense—and thank you for showing me how to love.”

Phil ran his fingers across a line of sweat on Dan’s forehead. 

“And how’s that?” he managed.

“Cosmic,” Dan said, and it was strained around a cry. “You love _cosmic_ , darling, and no problem will ever be big enough to wish it away. It’s true, it’s so fucking true. I dare them to try and wish us away.”

“They can’t,” Phil shook his head. “Nobody can wish this away. What we have is the greatest thing to ever be.”

“Yeah,” And Dan was laughing and so was Phil because it was _ridiculous_ , it all was, but they were so in love and so _happy_. Dan lay there against Phil’s shoulder with a face like he was fucking _complete_ and managed to whisper, “Is there anything I haven’t told you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Anything at all,” he said. “Is there anything you don’t know now?”

Phil’s mind tightened its gears and moved down a highway of memories. “Sammy,” Was the first thing, the only thing, he found down there. The boy’s name hadn’t settled on his tongue for years now, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t remember how it was supposed to taste.

“Harrison’s brother,” There wasn’t but a fault in Dan’s response. “We were really good friends, too good sometimes. He’s the reason Harrison hated me. We—He was sort-of my _boyfriend_ at one point, I think.”

“Your . . . Your _boyfriend_?”

Dan’s eyes were closed, and Phil thought that was for the best. He looked so peaceful. “We didn’t know what the fuck we were doing. We were just kids, Phil. We were just kids. But we held hands and stuff. We liked each other. He was such a beautiful kid.”

“And Harrison found out?”

Dan nodded. “He saw us holding hands once. It was awful. There’s a scar here—” he ran his fingers over his left side. “—that he made that day by shoving me into the wire fence around school. I’ve done so many terrible things, and had to pay so many prices.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong with Sammy,” Phil whispered, laying a kiss to his lips and moving it down his throat. “Nothing, baby. It wasn’t wrong. You liked him and he liked you. Kinda like us, eh?”

“It’s so much more powerful with you. Nobody’s ever made me feel like—” Dan’s fingers tugged at the edges of Phil’s hair at the kisses on his neck. “Stop, pretty boy. Gonna make me want it again.”

Phil smiled against his skin and settled sleepily back onto the pillow. Dan was there wrapped up at his side, sheets draped over him.

“Happiness is weird,” Dan mumbled, smile pictured on his plump lips.

“Do you like it?” Phil pushed his hair behind his ear. “Is it a good feeling?”

“It’s somewhat of a beautiful thing,” Dan mocked, and Phil poked his prominent rib.

“ _Hey_.”

“It’s okay, I just thought it was cute,” Dan whispered, reaching his hand up to lay his head on it. “Thank you for that. What we just did.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Phil returned. “You found the courage in you to let me. And you’re still being so brave, laying here like you are with me.”

Dan glanced down to his bare chest. “Can’t believe you don’t think they’re ugly. Were you lying, just so I’d feel good and let you do that?”

Phil shook his head and touched gentle fingertips against a scar below Dan’s collar. “Of course I wasn’t,” he said, sincere. “I love you.”

Dan’s eyes softened back into contentment. “I love you, too.”

“That’s the first time we’ve done that.”

“What?” Their eyes remained together. “Had sex?”

“No, I meant the ‘I love you’ thing,” Phil traced a pattern over Dan’s chest. “It’s the first time we said it like that. One says it, other says it back.”

“Oh,” Dan gave him a beautiful smile. “So it is, darling.”

He moved to rest his head on Phil’s shoulder and Phil ran his fingers down his tanned back. He was so fucking beautiful, and he was all Phil’s. He’d made a promise the day he met him to keep him safe, to love him so strong that his bones collapsed under the weight of everything that tried to come between them. Things had, and things would, but they were one another’s constant and that had only ever been the _point._

“Think we should sleep now,” Phil whispered, lips on Dan’s messy hair. 

“Okay,” Dan wrapped both of their hands together, fingers sliding between Phil’s. “Love you. Love you forever.”

“Love you, too,” Phil’s voice softened into the silence of the room. He felt Dan yawn, and pressed a kiss to his head. “Don’t be long,” he murmured to the sleepy boy.

And all was as it was.

><

It was seven when Phil woke. Weekday. Early morning. Two thousand and six. There was a grogginess to his eyes and an ache of exhaustion in his bones, described only by the smudges of Dan all over his skin. Dan and love and peace. He moved under the sheets and laid there, facing the window to the city pulsing with soft glows. One minute, two minutes, three. His eyes were heavy and his limbs still under the sheets.

It must have been the seventh or eight minute before he realised there was nobody in the bed next to him. Just a shift, a turn and the serenity—already long overdue—was shattered into a thousand tiny pieces to slash his fingers on.

Phil rubbed his hands over his eyes and felt a yawn soak into the back of his throat as he pushed himself up. The comforters rested around his lower stomach as he sat there in the bed and collected his consciousness, like it was a fragment of the solitude.

“Dan?” he called his name gently through the room, voice divided into a drowsy thickness and an equally compelling concern. There was no reason for him to say the boy’s name because he _wasn’t there_. That much was obvious. In the silence, in the neatly-made sheets, in the lack of jacket and shoes. A taste of guilt settled on his tongue. Dan’s inability to handle what they had done together was something Phil should have already predicted, understood, respected enough to not do what he had.

Still, Phil clambered from the bed after pulling his previously discarded clothes over his head. The uniform rubbed irritably against his skin but he knew he wasn’t going to be sleeping any longer; he had to find Dan, and get to school.

He tried Dan’s name again as he walked towards the bathroom and pushed his fingers against the door. It creaked softly against its hinges and staggered open to an empty bathroom. Phil would’ve ran right back for his phone then, had everything been as it should.

But, it wasn’t. On the toilet-lid, there was a box. Moderately large and patterned a pale blue. Phil’s eyes creased in confusion as he took a step towards it. Just resting there.

Still.

Through his tired (and growing anxious) mind, he approached it close enough to notice the little yellow post-it note attached to the lid.

_Morning, darling._

And, at the bottom, there was a fine:

_X._

Phil couldn’t fucking _breathe_. He knew Dan had left him this. This box. This secret. This mystery. Needless to say, Phil swiftly reached right down and retrieved it. He carried it with him back into the room and laid it down onto the bed, beside his crossed legs.

He clenched the note in his hand and chewed on the inside of his cheek. The feeling of his mind whirling beneath his fingertips when he ran his hand through his messy hair was just a notification of his reaction to this oddity he had woken up to.

_Why the fuck had Dan left him a box?_

There was no explanation. At least, not one he could _think_ of so soon after waking.

Phil’s fingers hooked around the edges of the smooth lid and he pulled it off with caution. Inside, there was an obvious envelope on top of a collection of items. Phil’s name was written on the front of it.

Without considering the other items inside the box, Phil tore at the top of the envelope and retrieved a series of, what appeared to be, letters. The amount of them explained immediately the size of the envelope.

Phil held his breath as he noticed their chronological ordering and—

Dan’s handwriting. His messy hand. Phil was starting on the first words before he’d calculated the rationality of the decision.

_[FIRST ENTRY: “Danny, the Champion of the World”]_

Dear Phil,

This is a stupid idea. I’ve never thought about doing anything like this before, I’ve never even kept a diary. But I figured I could do it for you because you’re special and I want this to be. I want to explain a lot of shit and I just find it’s easier to write it down.

I’ve always had some sort-of passion for words. I don’t know if having a passion necessarily means having a talent, but it definitely doesn’t in my case. I could never make anything from my words, at least not anything worth something, but I’ll give every ounce of myself I still have left into this for you. Maybe you could publish it for me when it finally gets to you.

Just kidding. Please don’t do that.

It’s been two days since we spoke. Since I found out you told and I hit you and made you bleed. I don’t think you know I’m writing under the sheets. Fuck, I don’t even think you know I hear it when you enter and exit the room. I think you went to school today but you spent all day downstairs yesterday. I guess you had more than enough reason to, even though it still felt strange to sit up here alone. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking. I drew some shitty cartoon about two alien kids with purple skin and blue eyes because blue represents peace and trust. It’s also the colour of your eyes, which I find rather appropriate. It was a comforting thing to stumble upon when I sat there and searched the psychology of the colour blue like a pretentious twat.

Anyway, the cartoon. It’s just a short thing where this bunch of kids leave their planet, ‘Inanis’, to search for their meaning. Only two of them manage to get far enough to this other planet, ‘Propositum’, and they build beacons there for all their friends to locate them. Sad thing is, they previously divided up and didn’t realise their friends got lost. And getting lost in space is shitty, Phil. I doubt anyone would recommend. So these couple of alien kids spend their lives on ‘Propositum’ waiting for their friends, only to die disappointed.

Now, there’s a reason I decided to write to you. Multiple reasons actually, but the one significant here is that you’re never satisfied with simplicity. You have to know more and your mind’s so open to everything, I fucking love it. I’m assuming you read that plot wondering the philosophy behind it so I’ll give it to you.

Pretty sure ‘Inanis’ is Latin for empty. These kids started with nothing. Empty. No purpose. I think all kids do, like maybe emptiness is a close friend of birth or some shit. Anyway, they grew old enough to realise they didn't like the emptiness. They weren’t able to be content with it. It’s a little ‘coming of age’ play, I guess. Something about nearing adolescence and craving your destiny. Happens to us all.

So these kids set out to find their purpose. If you hadn’t guessed already, ‘Propositum’ is Latin for purpose. Two of these kids find their purpose and they wait for everyone else, but they never actually realise that sometimes people don’t have the same purpose. They think their friends ‘got lost’ and maybe these friends thought the same about them. They all went in different directions and, even for the kids on Propositum, one died before the other. Maybe that one’s purpose was to to be the first death on ‘Propositum’. Just like the other’s was to be the second. Everybody has a different purpose and just because we’re all in the same space, doesn’t mean we can reach each other. It’s all quite messy but if anybody’s going to understand it, it’s you.

Damn, that’s a lot of writing. I wanna rest for a bit now, actually listen to some of the music in my ears.

Oh, and I think I’m going to name these entries after books. Maybe ones you’ve loved, or I think you will. Read them for me?

 

_[SECOND ENTRY: “The Wind in the Willows”]_

Dear Phil,

Elise tried to get me out of bed today. It’s been five days. I’ve tried to write again on multiple occasions since the last time, three days ago, but they were all nonsense. All scribbles and random breaks of thought. Maybe I’ll just leave them in for you one day.

I was reading back over the shit I wrote you about my purple alien piece, and I sort-of realised how much that sounded like I was avoiding the situation. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I just thought maybe you would want to hear me talk about it. You know, if I never got to show you it. If I forget or something, or if we never speak again.

I don’t know how to start talking. Break the silence. I think we might’ve had this conversation when we were younger over something or other, but I find it difficult to express myself without that extra push. I never was good at being independent.

This whole thing is just fucking awful. I haven’t left my bed in days, Phil. I haven’t changed my clothes. The silence in here is so artificial and wrong. It hurts to know I hurt you but, at the same time, it hurts that you hurt me, too. More so the latter. Maybe I would’ve handled the situation with Cat better, had you spoken to me. Had she not blurted it out and ruined everything. I’m just trying to figure out my shit. My skin crawls when I think about her sniggering at the thought of you and I together, like we’re some sort-of circus act.

Well, fuck her. I know she’s important to you but fuck her. I’m too scared to get out of bed and see the damage she’s caused because the damage here is enough to kill me.

 

_[THIRD ENTRY: “The Phantom Tollbooth”]_

Dear Phil,

You’ve been really focused on your art-pad. The yellow one. It’s really quite beautiful to see the way you chew the end of your pencil. What a fucking cliché.

As a note here, I don’t think I want to be mad at you anymore. I don’t think I ever did. It’s a really strange thing to be in my head. I’ve learned that I hate silence. Screaming is just so much better. A release, a relief.

I’m aware I probably sound like a poet with this dramatic monologue. 

I’m definitely trying too hard.

I just need to stop thinking for a while, I think.

 

_[FOURTH ENTRY: “The BFG”]_

Dear Phil,

Eleven days. I keep wondering if you’re counting, too. It’s stupid but I can’t help it. Sorry it’s been four or so days since my last entry, and sorry I missed the ten day mark because it’s a fucking anniversary or whatever. You got your cast off yesterday too, so it definitely was an anniversary.

I’m trying to work through some stuff. Thinking, thinking, thinking.

I’m writing this after my nightmare. Under the sheets. Scribbling. Can’t see a damn fucking thing. Hope it makes sense, correct it after. You woke up and stared at me for a minute but didn’t ask me if I was okay. Know you wanted to.

[ _Continued_ ] It was about him. My dad. I’ve hardly slept so it’s amazing I noticed how empty this entry looked. I decided to add a couple more things before you wake up and see me writing like some junkie with a cigarette in my mouth.

I was dreaming that he was there in my room. My childhood room. It had blue walls and a beige carpet and the best fucking thing about it was the bookshelf in the corner. There was one book on there. _Winnie The Pooh._ My grandfather had given it to me and it was the only book I had. I sat there every night and I read it, Phil, over and over again.

So many kids that age, they have parents to read to them. But I taught myself to read so I could invest myself into a world that allowed me to escape from the one I was living in. Reading was my safe place. It made me forget about the drunk fuck in the kitchen.

He was drunk in my dream, too.

It hurt.

 

_[FIFTH ENTRY: “The Year of Magical Thinking”]_

Dear Phil,

I think I have depression.

I’m writing this on the swing set in the playground. The one we used to go to, the one nobody ever bothers with anymore because we were the only ones who gave a shit and we all grew up.

It sucks, that.

It’s been twelve days and I had to get out of that fucking house when I tried to sleep some more but realised there wasn’t a whole lot of point, considering I can’t stop THINKING. I’ve tried looking at symptoms of depression and shit and it’s such a strange thing to do that because I associate them all with myself. It’s the natural instinct, I suppose.

But I’m not scared. I’m not scared of myself. That’s bullshit and not who I am.

But the silence is definitely trying to kill me before anything else does. It hurts more than my thoughts.

I’m sorry I don’t make any sense. I’m sorry I haven’t apologised yet. I’m sorry you’re all probably fucking terrified that I’ve ran away. Or maybe you’re not even bothered. I don’t know.

I don’t know anything.

It’s so cold out here, it hurts to write. I’m just sitting here swinging with a packet of cigarettes and a pen.

Feels like heaven.

 

_[SIXTH ENTRY: “Number the Stars”]_

Dear Phil,

Been fifteen days. Holy fuck, you’ve left me a drawing in my notebook. I hope you didn’t see all these writings. It would ruin it, it’s supposed to be some fucked up surprise one day.

But your drawing is really quite beautiful. A skeletal figure, dancing. You wrote that quote I told you at the bottom. I’m sorry I have to give it you back, mostly because it seems like I don’t want it. I do. I want all the pieces of you I’m allowed to. But I’m not certain in what I want from anyone yet. I think maybe I’ll leave you something, a note or whatever, because writing’s just easier.

I still can’t start that conversation. I don’t know what to do about all of this. I wish you’d just say something to me, try to do something other than sit there and watch me. I know I’m a fucking mess. I know I’m a failure. I know everybody’s fucking disappointed in me. But I need you to be here. Even if you get into bed next to me, just do something.

I feel insane.

Talk to me.

Please.

 

_[SEVENTH ENTRY: “The Wonderful Wizard of OZ”]_

Dear Phil, 

Seventeenth day. I’ve been writing nonsense phrases to you and I hope you’re getting the message. It really does mean a lot that you’re giving me the opportunity to talk in a way that I feel comfortable with. Thank you for that. 

I’m hoping we can have a proper conversation. Or you start the conversation, so I can then continue it. I need to be close to you again. It’s starting to really hurt. There’s such a strange emptiness to it all though. I’m not a poet so I’m not going to try and eloquently present how it feels to sit in the same room as you and not so much as glance over, but I’ll say that everything is empty. 

Very, very empty. 

Bleak. 

Missing somebody is an awful thing. Comes right between love and loss. I know you hurt me, but I fucking miss you. I miss you more than should be allowed, considering you haven’t actually gone anywhere. All this shit is suffocating me and I’m starting to struggle to put it down into words. That’s horrific for me, not being able to read or write. 

I didn’t realise how much I rely on you to function. 

I think you’re watching me. 

God, you are so fucking pretty. 

_[EIGHTH ENTRY: “We’re Going on a Bear Hunt”]_

Dear Phil,

This isn’t something I want to be tainted with my awful thoughts; I want it to 5be poetic and beautiful. I want you to treasure it, take all of these stray sheets of paper with you wherever you go.

I want it to be your favourite book.

That being said, I’m a terrible author. I can’g write emotions for shit. When I kissed you today, I just felt so different. Like I was actually special or something. I don’t understand how a boy like you could want a boy like me. You said we were kinda like Jesse and Leslie and I thought that was really nice. We’ve created our own world, you said. A place only we understand and exist in.

A place where Cat doesn’t exist and neither does Tanner or Abi. A place where our minds are busy being busy—reading stories and each other—because being busy will always be better than being still. Being still is too fragile, too easily broken. Being busy is fighting against the things that try to hurt us.

You said we never had to do that again. You said you were here for me. I’m sorry Cat hurt you and I’m sorry I did, too.

You deserve so much better.

Thank you for doing what you did today. After nineteen days of hell, I needed it.

I needed you and you knew that.

Thank you.

_[NINTH ENTRY: “The Secret Garden”]_

Dear Phil,

I wrote another short story today. I think it was good. It was about a boy who liked cherry blossom trees because they made him think about his grandmother’s garden in the middle of August. He was an orphan, and he’d lived with her for as long as he could remember. But she grew old and died right along with the cherry blossom tree, and the boy realised that the tree was just an extension of her. Something beautiful to represent her.

The death of tree saddened him as much as the death of his grandmother because it protected him and it was beautiful. Pink and dominant amongst the other trees. He was connected to it, and connection is such a gorgeous thing of human nature. Maybe I’ll just let you see it because I haven’t explained it very well.

I hope you’re still reading.

Maybe I’m just talking to nobody.

How fucking depressing.

_[TENTH ENTRY: “Where the Sidewalk Ends”]_

Dear Phil,

You’ve been going to school because you’re so responsible and you care about your education. You’re gonna be a lawyer or some shit, yeah? That’ll make Bernie and Elise proud. It would make me too, but only if it made you.

By that, I mean only if you wanted to be a lawyer. You never used to be good at maths, you hated it if I remember correctly, but you’ve really improved as you’ve got older. I still don’t know whether you particularly like it. It’s not my place to make any decision for you, but please just do what makes you happy.

Adults are fucking shitheads. They push you for the grades and then leave you in the dark. It doesn’t matter if you hate your job because everyone does, that’s what they say. You’re supposed to. But I don’t want you to heave yourself out of bed at six every morning and not get home until five. I don’t want you to live a life that makes you feel like what you have right now was the best you ever had because it doesn’t have to be that way.

Be an artist or something. Be creative. You're fucking phenomenal at art. You have the ability to make the world into something beautiful, something remarkable. You can channel your pain and your frustration into a canvas of colours that people understand and relate to. You can depict a lifetime into a single square image. You can do fucking anything with a pencil and a couple colours and you don’t have to be what they tell you to be. For whatever fucking reason, we exist, and you’re never gonna find your purpose if you follow the rules because the rules start and end with disaster.

Of course, they’re not there to be broken. But the people who complain about what they’ve made their lives into are the people who deserve it. They blind you with reminders about what you’re good at if what you’re good at is good.

But fuck them.

Just be somebody. You aren’t here to do anything else.

When I’m gone, paint me a picture. And make it sell, darling.

_[ELEVENTH ENTRY: “Watership Down”]_

Dear Phil,

I’m going out with Tanner and Abi later. Probably gonna get drunk. I mean, it’s Friday night. It sounds reckless but it’s just a release. I need to feel something in this state of numbness. In this state of nothing. Everything’s hurting—I see it all hurting around me—but I feel nothing. It’s like Jesus fucking Christ has realised that to leave me with emptiness is a greater way of suffering than to leave me with pain. I’m struggling so much and I can’t ever tell you, not in the depth that I wish I could because my brain doesn’t like it.

My brain doesn’t like me.

I’ll try and remember not to come home to you if I do get drunk. You don’n need all that. You don’t need me being me and I will never understand why you think you do. This is a vicious cycle and I can feel myself losing whatever control I still have left of it. Please, don’t try to catch me if I fall. Not this time.

Maybe I would finally start hurting again if I did fall.

I’m sorry in advance for the mess tonight will bring. I’m too fucking selfish to just stay under the covers with you and read you my cherry blossom story.

I called it “Seclusion”, if you were wondering.

_[TWELFTH ENTRY: “Where the Red Fern Grows”]_

Dear Phil,

I’m drunk as fuck right now. I'll be making a bunch of mistakes but I’ll correct them when I’m feeling up to it again.

I think it’s about three in the morning. Last night was worse than I could’ve predicted. Pretty sure Tanner hates me now. Pretty sure Abi does too, but that isn’t your fault. It’s all mine because I’m so damaged and vulnerable and unable to protect myself.

You saved me again. From the world and its harsh opinion. They’re all so fucking nasty and I hate their hate. I hate mine, too.

I’m trying to feel better. I've been sitting on the end of the bed watching you sleep for a long time. I found a couple old children’s books on my shelf and the pages all smell like home. Like you and the orphanage and my stupid fucking room with blue walls. The pages are all crinkly and I’ve read over a couple of them. I smoked seven cigarettes and drank half a bottle of Bernie’s gin.

I know I could just wake you up before I do something, but I don’t want you to be sad.

I want to hurt. So badly. I always just feel like I’m trying to reach something and never can. I want to reach it. The pain and the anger and the guilt. I want to be angry at myself and I want you to scream at me and punch me and kick me because then I’d feel a whole lot more than I do now. I’d actually feel like a human being.

With fucking feelings and that.

Depression fucking sucks. I have my anxiety meds in the cupboard and I could just take all of them right now but that wouldn’t hurt. It would happen too quickly to hurt.

I’m sorry for this. For what I’m going to do. I don’t want you to find me but I do at the same time. Because then maybe I’d scare you and you’d leave. You wouldn’t be around for the next war that comes.

Please, don’t try and save me.

Just leave me.

I’m sorry I never let you read “Where the Red Fern Grows” when we were kids. You can read it now. I’ll leave on top of my shelf for you.

Find it.

Find me.

_[THIRTEENTH ENTRY: “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”]_

Dear Phil,

Hey there, baby. It’s been a hell of a long time. I’m writing from the ward because you brought my notebook up for me. I hope you didn’t look in it. I trust that you didn’t. I trust you.

I needed to write so fucking much and I think you knew that. I’m writing so fast right now. Haven’t stopped. Can’t. I was putting all words on my arms and shit because it helped me. Some nurse asked me about it so I told her it was better than a fucking blade. She looked saddened and agreed that, yes, it was.

I don’t like them, Phil. They look at me weird when you’re not here. When you’re not allowed to be. They keep changing my therapist, too. Apparently they’re just really busy, overcrowded and that. People pretend so much here and it feels like hell.

My wrists are starting to heal. Just a little every day. I went back and perfected a lot of these entries, re-wrote some parts of them. They should be moderately eloquent.

The nights in here are the worst because there’s so much silence and it’s just fucking eerie. I hate silence. I need to protect myself from it, or I need you here to protect me. Every sound is magnified so much and I’m so scared to be alone.

I just want to sleep.

I keep going over the prayer you told me. The Lord’s Prayer, isn't it? It’s beautiful. Peaceful. I feel safe when I echo it under my breath.

I think maybe they’ll discharge me soon. I don’t know what I’ll do when they do that. Maybe just never leave you, since Bernie and Elise don’t have a fucking clue about me. Didn’t even figure out I don’t take my anxiety meds.

I’m on a bunch of weird pills now and they’re all so hard to swallow. They mess my head up even more, make me feel bad. The nurse said they’re supposed to stop me feeling sick, but I feel sicker than ever before in these white walls and this silence.

Madness is an excellent thing until it starts to hurt. It’s also an excellent thing until it doesn’t hurt at all.

Do you remember that Lent guy? I was thinking about him earlier today. He was insane, he was. Pretty sure of it. I should bloody look for him in here, although it’s unlikely he’s in Scotland. Do you know if Martyn still speaks to him? He went to college, right?

I have no idea. I can’t remember. Sorry.

I miss everything and everybody so much. I don’t mean outside of here, I mean from all those years ago. When we linked pinkies and the attic was my favourite place in the world. I wonder if it’s still there.

It’s probably forgotten me.

Everything always forgets me.

I really did hate that orphanage, but it sorta made me who I am. I met you there and you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. You’re my best friend in the whole fucking world and I love you.

I’m so sorry I hurt you. I’m so sorry I’m terrible at being in love with you. But I am, I swear it. Even though sometimes I fail to make it so, I love you.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

Thank you for saving me, all the times you have. It’s fuck of a thing to breathe but I’m grateful.

_[FOURTEENTH ENTRY: “The Lovely Bones”]_

Dear Phil,

It’s my second day of being discharged. First day of being your boyfriend. Well, properly. I think we’ve been dating for a while without knowing it.

I want to kiss you forever. Forever and ever. It’s the only time I feel okay. That, and when we lay together. I feel okay then, too.

We should get married. I don’t have any intention of leaving yet. Fuck everybody else.

I’m so sick that I don’t even care anymore. I want the world to know you’re mine.

Wonder if it already does.

_[FIFTEENTH ENTRY: “Goodnight Mister Tom”]_

Dear Phil,

I’m so sorry. I so sorry I went back to her and fucked us up again. I didn’t know what to do. I think I’ve explained it to you as best I could and I understand your feelings.

I’ll choose you, I swear it.

I’ll choose you forever.

You said you loved me back. I thought I’d fucked up when it took you so long but you said it back.

Said you loved me to death.

I hope so.

I’m going to do something for us soon. To show you I love you. To show you I want you.

I think maybe it’ll complete us.

_[SIXTEENTH ENTRY: “Charlotte’s Web”]_

Dear Phil,

I’m waiting in the hotel room for you. You’re on your way. I’ve decided this might be one of the last days of my life.

It’s comforting, that. I don’t know why. When I cut my wrists and ended up in a psych ward, I had no intention of dying; I had every intention of hurting. But I think when you realise the difference between wanting to die and actually doing it, there’s a sort-of closure that comes. I never realised how simple it would be.

How easy and how beautiful. I’m not scared anymore. I don’t have to fight anymore. I promise to write to you once more, after tonight.

I’ll explain everything. Please, don’t run for me yet. I need you to read it.

_[SEVENTEENTH ENTRY: “The Giving Tree”]_

Dear Phil,

This is my last letter. It’s an early morning in 2006. Before five.

Last night was the best night of my life. You always remind me of what it means to be alive. You’ve given me everything and I’m eternally grateful. Saying thank you isn’t enough. It never, ever could be.

When you’re reading this, I might not be yours anymore. I might not be here. But it’s okay, little darling, because I’m okay now. I’m so, so okay. Happiness is good. Happiness is the best of the best, it really fucking is. But being able to say that you’re okay is something else entirely. It’s something really important. To say you’re okay is to say there’s been a time when you weren’t. You can only define ‘okay’ when you’ve been ‘not okay’ and that’s different to happy and sad because those two are different levels, couldn’t be farther apart.

‘Okay’ is pretty damn close to ‘not okay’ and that’s the beauty of it. Of course I’m not really okay. I’m Dan. But I _am_ okay.

I’ve decided that I don’t want to stay here anymore, Phil. I hope you can learn to understand that. My decision doesn’t come from a selfish place, in fact it came so long ago that I can’t even remember where it came from.

When I met you at the orphanage, I had an immediate fear of losing you. You were just so lovely to me, always so lovely and so kind. You made me so fucking happy, Phil. I didn’t realise it until last night, when I actually understood what happiness was.

You taught me how to play football. To always kick the ball with the side of your foot and to never look down.

Never look down.

You taught me how to love, both other people and myself at the correct times. It’s not that I love myself, not that I even like myself, but I’ve learned how to try. I’ve learned that even the most damaged of people can find somebody and the only rule is to just be who they are. So don’t ever think that you failed. You were you and you were good.

My life has always been a bit of a mess. It wasn’t that I was destined to fail, it was that my destiny was a failure. Multiple things have saved me along the way. Stories, music, writing and you.

Pink Floyd. Nirvana. Eminem. My Chemical Romance. _Wonderwall_ and _Winnie The Pooh._

Sad things can be beautiful, as I’m sure you understand. Better than anyone I’ve ever met. And this world is sad, but there are so many beautiful things to find. So much still left for you to see.

You have been everything I could have asked for and more. I’m so sorry for hurting you and I’m so sorry for scaring you. I’m so sorry for not loving you the way you would’ve liked. Sometimes, a story has to end for you to begin reading another. If that wasn’t the case, we’d still be reading all those books we did when we were kids. So I’m asking you to listen to me, just one more time.

Do not falter. Do not stop. Be excellent. Be proud. Draw me a fucking picture and make it sell.

Don’t ever be afraid to feel what you feel. What you feel is valid and what you feel is real. Without you, I’d never have made it. And without me, I know you can. You’ll be sad, of course. There’ll be moments when you’re empty.

But know that somewhere a bluebird is singing all the songs yesterday forgot, all the songs tomorrow will bring. The world is never quiet. The world is never still.

You made Dan Howell happy, you incredible fucking person. You made me happy.

I don’t know enough words to describe that emotion, but I know how to say this:

I think I could use some rest. That doesn’t have to be anybody’s fault. I’ll sleep in peace, in happiness. I’m gonna go get that spaceship, and I’ll send it right back to you. Promise. Maybe I’ll visit a couple universes along the way. One where I can talk to PJ again, or one where I can learn what it will feel like to kiss you tomorrow.

And the day after and the day after. I’ve left you everything I have that means anything to me all. I want you to have all of it because you’re my fucking prince.

I’ve done what I can. All I can.

If I can’t reach anywhere, I’ll wait for you in the spaces between our universes. I promise, I’ll never be far. I’ll listen to everything you say and watch everything you do.

You built me a home, and I’ll never forget how to find my way back.

Thank you. Thank you for everything. I never could have made it without you.

And, you know what, I’m doing okay.

So stay gold, darling.

I’ll see you in Terabithia.

Love you,

Dan x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, I fuckin’ cried and there’s still one chapter left. It shows how much this story means to me. I don’t actually have a lot to say, but the final chapter is very much just a splatter of emotion, acceptance, understanding etc.
> 
> It’s really, really important to me. So don’t leave yet.x


	22. XXII

**XXII**

It was such an awful day, the day Dan Howell died. There was a storm on the horizon that never developed into a storm—always just stayed there, holding a grey sky and a thick scent of rain—and it was a shameful attempt at sadness. Phil's phone rang out with seventeen missed calls from Bernie and Elise and then Bernie again, and his voice was all choked with _you can’t have fucking left me_ when he finally answered.

“Phil, where the _hell_ have you been?” It was Bernie. Maybe. It was impossible to tell.

“Dad,” Phil croaked. The ink at the bottom of the letter was running across the page. “Where is he?”

“Y-You need to get home, Phil—”

“What has he done, Dad? Please, just—What has he done?”

Phil knew he couldn’t fix it. He didn’t know why he asked. He thought maybe he could try, before he realised that bloody fingers couldn’t fix broken glass.

“Just get home, Phil. Your mother, she—She can’t lose you, too—”

Phil's fingers were fucking trembling when he hung up his phone. It clattered against the wall and the screen shattered, he heard it go, as he wrapped tight arms around his knees and—

The air was so thick, so merciless. It choked all up in his lungs and squeezed on his insides and he cried there in that stupid fucking hotel room. He didn’t know where he was or what to do and for the first time in his _life_ , he didn’t want to _be._ Hopelessness settled comfortably under his skin, used its fingers to mend bricks and cement and fix them together into a little makeshift home. The ‘welcome’ sign was scratched out, replaced with ‘there’s no point in you being here’ and Phil’s heart pounded apology after apology.

He didn’t have to hear that Dan was dead to know he was. He stood up from the bed and his balance shook so strong that he stumbled back down.

_You made me happy._

“Fuck—” he was sobbing as he scrambled to retrieve his phone from the floor and kick his shoes onto his feet. _You’ll be sad, of course._ He shrugged his jacket on and staggered back to the bed, where the box remained. His fingers were quick in gathering the letters and putting them back into the box and—

Inside, he’d left so much. Albums. Novels. Pages torn out, little phrases highlighted. There was a handwritten page labelled “Seclusion” and a couple black pairs of earphones. Phil couldn’t fucking _breathe_ as he slammed the lid over the box and forced it into his bag, dragging the zip tightly across to fix it into place.

He left the hotel room with tears all over his face and whimpers in the back of his throat. He tried the elevator but ten seconds was too long to wait, so he ran to the stairs and raced down all five blocks. _I’ve done what I can. All I can._ His footing stumbled on multiple occasions but his fingers were strong around the railing, and he bounded through into the busy reception with not but a scratch. His chest heaved with the weight of the world—everything good and bad and ugly—and he shoved his way through the crowd.

“Hey!” A moderately old man was yelling after his frantic pace. “You better bloody watch where you’re going, kid!”

Phil couldn’t have cared less for those people if he tried. He couldn’t have cared less for anybody still breathing. Outside, he broke off into a run—much to the disapproval of his lungs—and bolted down the little Scottish roads. The anaemic skies looked like how they had done in London, like they were always heavy with cloud and downpour and _do you think you could teach me how to play today?_

Phil’s feet scrambled underneath him. He was fucking _choking_ but he wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t let himself. The weight of his bag on his shoulders and the pain of his heart smearing stupid memories of friends and forever was too much for his physical capability.

There was a boy on the same side of the road as him that looked no older than nine, and his hair was all messy and he had both hands on the straps of his bag and—

Phil couldn’t look at him. He couldn't fucking look at him. His hearts was bleeding and he was wearing a white fucking shirt and he continued on until his hand dragged across a neighbour’s gate of a house at the end of their street.

His palms were pressed against his knees as his chest heaved under the physical exertion. He gave a cry that sounded like _help me, help me, please fucking help me_. Far up the road, blue lights gleamed under the grey sky. There were two police cars that told Phil where Dan was, where he’d fucking _died_ , and his balance was crumbling under him before he'd found anything to grab onto.

He sat there on his knees on the cold pavement with a buzzing phone and an aching chest. His throat was dry and he gagged out the disbelief, the pain and the anger and the guilt.

“N-No, no— _Fuck_!” he twisted his hands through his hair and pulled, lowering his head down to his stomach and sobbing under the dangerous fists of sudden grief.

It was a strange word, that. Grief. Phil learned to hate it. He learned because it appeared in the silence of the people who didn't know what to say, in the spaces between the breaths of _I’m sorry about Dan._

_I heard he topped himself. We’re praying for your family._

And Phil couldn’t _say_ anything because nobody ever said anything to him. Nobody ever gave him that opportunity. On the day he died, Phil sat in the waiting room of the hospital he’d visited one too many times. He had his arms around his bag—around the only pieces of Dan he still had—and tried to hear anything in the situation but a fading echo of _what the fuck has happened?_

Elise cried too much. Bernie came to save the fucking day with too-weak coffees from the vending machine. Cat called a lot, and Chris left him a few voicemails.

Phil stayed on the waiting room’s plastic chair like he was actually waiting for something. He wondered when the nurse would come and tell him Dan had been moved up to a different ward, tell him he could see him now.

Phil answered Cat’s call deep into the late evening of the worst day of his life.

“Phil, babe—I’m at your place, I was worried because you didn’t show up at school,” she was rushing, and Phil wasn’t particularly listening. “Why is there a police car here? They won’t tell me anything, has something happened?”

And Phil realised he didn’t actually know how to say that Dan had died. He didn’t actually know how to say that he'd left him a box of letters and albums and novels. He didn’t actually know how to say that he just wished it would fucking _rain_ because it was the perfect goddamn day for it. He’d cried so much—hadn’t really stopped—but it didn’t matter that he had because he was just Phil.

And this was just Dan.

And the world didn’t actually know how to say _hey, they were more to each than you thought._

Phil got up and left the waiting room, and the woman at the desk smiled at him but he didn't give her anything in return. He thought maybe she knew what had happened.

“Phil,” Cat was still there on the line. Loud and demanding. “Phil, are you there? Your neighbours are here being nosy shits and—They want to know what happened. Why are the police here? Phil? What’s—Oh, God, please don’t tell me it’s Dan. What has he done? Phil?”

“He’s dead, Cat,” Phil said it, and he felt nothing. _There’ll be moments when you’re empty._ He felt nothing at all and he didn't know why because he was crying again, so much and so hard. He rested his head back against a white wall.

“He’s _dead_?” Cat’s voice didn’t sound right on the word. Nothing sounded fucking right in the stupid fucking world. “He’s . . . Phil, please, you’re joking.”

“Why the _fuck_ would I joke?” Phil shouted at her. All the nurses and visitors were looking at him because he was such a shameless mess. “He’s fucking _dead_! He _died_! He topped himself this morning on this _bullshit_ hospital’s antidepressants!"

“Where are you?” Cat’s voice was suddenly weak, broken. “Phil, sweetheart, where are—”

Phil hung up the phone and went back into the waiting room. Bernie and Elise didn’t look at him when he entered, but that was okay. He liked it better like that, without them. The silence was nice and easy on his ears. Dan was still all over his skin—fingers through his hair and on his hips and _Phil, that feels so good there._ Distant whines, tender whimpers, desperate touches.

_You’re so gorgeous, I’m so sorry. I don’t deserve you._

Phil pushed shaking hands over his wet face in an attempt to rid of the memories. They burned there, all over him. He fucking _reeked_ of Dan.

“Why would he do this, Phil?” Bernie spoke, and Phil glanced to him. He was rubbing smooth circles across Elise’s lower back, soothing her. As if _she_ needed the comfort. As if _she_ was allowed to hurt.

Phil shook his head and rubbed his nose over his sleeve. He was still in his uniform. “He was hurting. So much, Dad.”

“He could’ve just spoken to us,” Bernie said. “He didn’t have to do this.”

“He would have spoken to you if he saw that as an option,” Phil retaliated. He was in so much pain, but never enough to not defend the dead boy he was in love with.

Bernie’s expression was strong. “I’m just saying, Phil. After what happened with—with our lads before you, we didn’t need this. We’re not young like we used to be and your mother’s just frightened—”

“Frightened of _what_?” Phil seethed. He leaned to look at Elise. “What are you frightened of, Mom? What do _you_ have to be frightened of?"

“It just feels like I eventually lose everything I have, Phil—”

“Yeah, well join the _fucking_ club, Mom,” Phil jolted to his feet. Elise’s eyes were hurt and there was pain scrawled over her face, but she wasn’t half of the mess Phil was.

“Phil! Don’t you dare—” Bernie tried.

“No, just _stop_!” Phil yelled. “You’re both sitting there like Dan was anything at all to you! Like he was something that you could lose! You never fucking had him, he was never yours to lose!”

“And he was _yours_?” Bernie’s tone was low, inflicting.

“Yeah,” Phil’s aching heart was answering before his mind was even staggering behind. On the day Dan died, nothing made sense. Nothing was real. And denial was but a cool breeze between the branches of the winding streets, whispering of a popular boy’s suicide. An overdose on antidepressants under an open cupboard. A series of policemen and a pair of failing parents. A best friend, an enemy and a boyfriend. A box. A book. A song.

The day after Dan’s death, Phil went back to the house. He wasn’t talking to Bernie and Elise and they weren't talking to him. It was impossible to know whether it was because of the way he’d spoken to Elise, or because of what he’d said. He didn’t care enough to find out.

The bedroom looked so different when Phil walked in. His hair was all messy and matted and his eyes were drained, stomach grumbling under his ribs. He laid his bag down on his bed to retrieve the box, then headed over to Dan’s bed. He stared at the mattress for a while with his fingers tight around the box. And then he settled on the very end of it, removing the lid and laying it down.

Phil didn’t want to ruin the smooth lining of the sheets. The corners were tucked up under the pillow and folded around the edges. Dan had always been exceptionally neat, not in himself but in the areas he lived. Phil was so careful in his movements; he tightened his fists and released them again to still the trembling of his fingers, before reaching inside the box and pulling out two books.

 _Where the Red Fern Grows_ and _The Little Prince._ They were old copies, it was obvious. One of the corners of the front cover was curled.

Beneath the two books, there was his copy of _Bridge To Terabithia_ and Phil turned it over in his hands. There was a little note scrawled on the back page.

_I know how much you loved this, darling._

And then Phil was crying again. His fingers were tight around the book and he hugged it to his chest, leaning down across the bed on his side. He reached his other hand up and fisted the sheets, dragging them down to his face and breathing in. _Dan, Dan, Dan_.

Cigarette smoke.

Coconut shampoo.

_Without you, I’d never have made it._

“I-I’m so sorry, baby,” Phil whimpered, tears coming to soothe his cracked lips. He inhaled again and cried Dan’s name into the covers. “I love you s-so much, why do you have to be _gone_?”

There was such an awful silence in the room, choking all the remaining air out of Phil’s shrivelling lungs. He was already so desperate for Dan’s voice, for his sad words and his beautiful eyes. Phil didn’t want to believe this was his fault because Dan had reiterated so many times that it wasn’t—but it _was._

The day after his death, Phil lay in his bed all day. Sheets around him, pillow hugged to his chest. It still smelt of him. He was all over the comforters and Phil cried through the scent, through heavy hearts and sleepy eyelids and forgotten novels. There was a knock on the bedroom door and then another, when Phil didn’t call out for them. He laid facing the misty window.

Before long, the door was clicking open and shutting on an entrance. He didn’t flinch, didn’t falter. Cat’s careful voice droned through the nothingness.

“Hey, sweetheart. Chris and I came to see how you were holding up.”

Phil closed his eyes and nudged his face into the pillow. _Dan, Dan, Dan._

“How are you, mate?” Chris’ tone had never been so gentle. So soft, calm. But Phil hated it, hated the way they were talking. Not because of what they were saying, but because of how they were saying it. Phil didn’t want this softness and this fragility. He wanted Dan’s hoarse tone, the scratch of its surface.

“Elise didn’t look too good,” Cat mumbled, suddenly crouched down at Phil’s side.

Phil shook his head and made a sound from the back of his throat. His fingers were tight around the sheets at his chin. “What a fucking shame for her,” he spat, and his throat burned.

“What’s happened?” Chris was frowning down at him.

“Dan died,” Phil was crying again. Over and over and over. “Did you not hear?”

“I meant with Elise,” Chris whispered. “What happened between you?”

Phil was shaking his head again and burying his nose into the pillow to inhale. Cat smoothed a hand over the back of his hair, the friction with the pillow having tousled the strands.

“Is there anything we can do for you?” she murmured.

“I—” he couldn’t breathe again. He forced himself up in the bed and his chest heaved. “I fucking m-miss him so much, oh my _God_ —”

“Do you know why he did it? What triggered it? I mean, obviously he was mentally ill but what was the final thing that—”

“Please, I don’t want to talk about this,” Phil was hugging the sheets again, whimpering.

Cat breathed and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“No—” Phil cried, shuffling to force on her shoulders. “No, no, don’t sit down—Please, you’re gonna—It won’t smell like him—”

“Okay, babe—Sorry, okay,” Cat was instantly standing and Phil hugged his arms around his stomach. A cry settled in the back of his throat.

He wondered what he looked like, sitting there. He wondered what his friends thought of him. But his mind was too sore and too tired to _think_ , so he pushed his hands over his hair and pulled. _The world is never quiet. The world is never still._

Chris gestured to the box on the corner of the bed. “What’s that?”

Phil reached for it and hugged it to his chest. “Mine,” he choked. “From Dan.”

“What . . . What did he leave in there?” Cat asked him softly.

Phil was shaking his head too much, he knew that. But he felt so fucking _ill_ that if he spoke enough, he would vomit. He hadn't eaten for almost two days now. And his heart was so sick, so torn and so sick. He just wanted to fucking see Dan. Touch him and hold him and _you made me so fucking happy, Phil._

“It’s a letter?” Chris was leaning down into the box, and Phil shoved his hands away roughly.

“No!” he yelled. He didn’t mean to. His fingers came instantly to claw at his ears because it was too much, too loud. “Just don’t touch it, Chris. Please. You both n-need to leave.”

“Phil,” Cat tried. “I know it’s so hard for you, darling, but—”

“Don’t call me that,” Phil pulled the sheets so tight up to his face. _Come home, baby, I miss you—_ “Don’t call me that, Cat, h-he used to—Just don’t—”

The emphasis on the past tense knotted Phil’s stomach. He’d never felt so awful in all his life and he thought it unlikely he’d be able to feel worse.

It took a week for him to get out of Dan’s bed. Elise started trying with him after realising he wasn’t eating and had been sleeping where Dan used to. She attempted to talk to him about the situation, about how he was feeling and why it was hurting so much. She didn’t understand and she never would. She left plates of food on the bedside table—like she had done through those nineteen days with Dan—and always shut the door on her exit. She tried to draw the curtains one evening, but Phil managed to speak up and demand against it. It was a distraction to look out of the busy window, and he liked distractions.

When he finally got out of Dan’s bed, it was a Monday and he insisted on going to school. Another distraction. Another way to forget. He took aspirin in the morning for his headache and then walked to school, smashed phone in his back pocket. He hadn’t changed out of his uniform and he didn't think he ever would. The ghosts of Dan’s fingers were there, clutching at his collar and tugging at it.

Everything seemed to still at school. When he headed down the corridor upon arrival, it wasn't one person that stopped and stared. It wasn't two or three. It was several. Multiple.

“Phil, what are you doing here?” Cat was visibly surprised at his presence. She looked saddened also, at his obvious attempt. He was a fucking mess.

“Needed to try,” he croaked. “For him.”

There were whispers in the corners of classroom and nudges on shoulders, shadowed with _go on, go ask him_ and Phil felt like a fucking circus act. His English teacher kept smiling at him—lips tight with pity—and his History teacher wouldn’t look at him. It was odd, he thought, how people reacted to a death. This was the suicide of a gorgeous boy who danced through the light of popularity. Nobody _liked_ him, but everybody wanted to be him. At least, that’s what Phil calculated from their reactions. And the majority failed to vocalise their sympathy or, in some cases, _relief_.

“Yeah, that’s his brother,” The guys were whispering behind Phil in History. A little clique, they were, a couple of kids rarely noticed.

“He was always a dick to me, that Dan.”

Phil tightened his fingers around the edges of his desk.

“Same. I don’t think anybody _deserves_ to die, but he was a—”

“You know, you should really learn how to _fucking_ whisper,” Phil turned and snapped at them, and the teacher’s voice droned right into silence. The class was quiet, stilted. Somebody coughed from the back and another moved in their seat.

“Sorry, we—” One of the guys quickly began, cheeks tinting red. Humiliation. Shame. “We weren’t trying to—Dan was—”

“Don’t fucking act like you liked him,” Phil seethed. “I know he was a dick to guys like you. I know he pushed you around and made you feel like shit. But he didn’t mean it. He killed himself because of it. He hated himself and—”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Another guy chirped, strong. He had chubby arms folded over his chest.

“He’s _dead_ ,” Phil choked from behind gritted teeth. He wasn’t going to cry anymore, he wouldn’t let himself. His eyes were still red and blotchy.

“Yeah,” The same guy growled. “And what a _tragedy_.”

“Do you want to fucking say something?” Phil jolted from his seat and his chair hit the boy’s desk behind him. The teacher spoke, hardly muttered something to console the thick air, but it went ignored.

“I’m just _saying_ , I don’t think your brother was all that great. He was an absolute dick, you’re right, and I’m allowed to be thankful he’s soon to be six feet under because—”

“ _Fuck_ you—” Phil lunged forward and the class erupted into havoc. The guy bolted out of the way and Phil shouted so much he couldn’t anymore, so much his History teacher finally fucking looked at him. He dragged his thrashing body out of the room, forcing him into the corridor and shutting the door after himself.

Phil kicked his foot into the bottom of a locker and the sound echoed down the silence.

“Phil,” The teacher’s voice was calm, professional, but there was a flaw in his eyes. He saw the pain glaring off the student, coming out in gleams and beams and disintegrating everything whole. He saw the agony in his shaking frame and awful composure.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—” Phil’s voice trembled. “I didn’t mean to cause that, I didn’t—It’s just—I don’t—”

“I think you should go home,” The teacher put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not been long since your brother . . . passed. Maybe you should wait a while.”

Phil shook his head and licked his lips. There were tears all over his face, he realised. “I’m sorry,” he croaked. “Do you need me to go to the head? Do I—What do I have to do?”

“Go down to reception and tell them I sent you, Phil,” There was a compassion in his tone. A foreign understanding. “They’ll ring a parent or guardian for you. You won’t have to suffer consequences for this.”

Phil nodded, still shaking. “O-Okay—” he managed. “I’ll—Okay. Thank you."

And so he went. He was crying as he moved down the corridors and around the corners, muffling the sounds into his arm.

_Stay gold, darling._

Phil slowed on a corner and reached his hand out onto a wall, stilling himself. Dan’s voice was there in his ears, coming to replace his heart. _I think I might be happy right now—_

_Happy, happy, happy._

“Fuck,” Phil clenched his jaw through the pain, the slow drag of agony. He stumbled against the wall and fell to the floor and— _You’re beautifuler. So beautiful and so gentle and so—_

_Sleep with me. Hug me to sleep._

Phil sat on the floor of the quiet corridor and hugged his knees to his face, sobbing Dan’s name into his legs. He’d never been so in love with him, and yet he would never see him again. He wondered if he would ever be able to get up from the floor, if he would ever be able to stop crying about the boy he loved and the boy he lost.

_You’re my wonderwall._

“Phil?”

Phil looked up through the cloud of foggy tears in his eyes and tried to determine the identity of the person standing there. They crouched down and hooked an arm around his waist and he instantly fought against the grip.

“No, Phil,” The person said. “It’s me, it’s Chris. Mate, come on, get off the floor.”

“Fuck _off_ , Chris—” Phil sobbed.

“Why are you down here, why aren’t you in class?”

“Some fucker was saying shit a-about Dan and—I want to go home, I-I just want to go home—”

“Come on then, mate,” Chris tried to lift him, and succeeded in fighting against Phil’s struggle. “I’ll take you down to reception and they can call—”

“No, I want _Dan_!”

There was a stutter of pain in Chris’ eyes, something humane and heartbreaking. He swallowed it back. “I know, mate,” he whispered, hands on his shoulders. “I know, but he’s not here and you have to try for him. You have to keep moving because he didn’t want you to stop.”

And Chris was right. Chris was so, so right. Phil went home and slept in Dan’s bed, clutching a black hoodie that smelt the strongest of smoke. Of him.

He went out later in the week to buy a CD player. The albums Dan had left him in the box—the ones he’d left a note saying he’d saved up for—couldn’t be played on Bernie’s record player. So Phil bought one and set it up, then settled on Dan's bed in his hoodie after inserting an album titled ‘Wish You Were Here’, like a punch in the fucking gut.

It was such a beautiful record, it was. Pink Floyd. Phil laid and stared up at the ceiling and let his eyes flutter under the sound of the music.

_So you think you can tell Heaven from Hell?_

Phil clenched his fingers over the hoodie. He screwed his eyes shut tight and thought about how Dan looked sitting in the chapel at the hospital. Wrists bandaged and eyes red. Hospital gown dipping over his shoulder. He'd said that he wanted to go Hollywood, and Phil wondered what he would have looked like under the lights of America’s treasure. Phil told himself that he would’ve taken him one day, had he lived through the wars. He told himself he would’ve fucking married him.

_Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?_

Phil didn’t want to still, but he was so tired. So tired of everything. Dan had died in the bathroom whilst he’d been sleeping and he imagined getting to him in time, reaching him before he left him alone. He imagined taking him in his arms and kissing away the pain before he even fucking _reached_ the bottle of pills. Waking before he left the hotel room. Phil’s stomach groaned under his arm and he rolled onto his side to touch his face against the sheets.

_What have we found?_

Phil’s mind reminded him of how Dan had looked when he saw his mother.

_The same old fears._

And then of how Dan had felt falling asleep in his arms.

_Wish you were here._

Phil stayed in the house for a long time. Days. Weeks. Cat came and visited alone once, when Elise let her in.

“Why hasn’t the world stopped, Cat?” Phil was curled up in Dan’s bed, throat hoarse and weak under the words.

“What do you mean, sweetheart?”

“Why hasn’t it _stopped_? He’s been gone for weeks and—He was the only thing I had. I ever had. Every day is getting worse and yet—Yet everybody else is fine,” Phil whimpered, once. “How is that fair?”

“It’s not supposed to fair,” Cat whispered. She was sat on the floor, back against Dan’s bedside table. “It’s supposed to hurt. He was Dan and you’re Phil. It was never going to be _fine_ , babe.”

Phil sniffed into the corner of Dan’s pillow.

“Have you thought about trying school again?” Cat continued. “Maybe you need to try and get out of his bed.”

“I can’t, Cat,” Phil wrapped the sheets up in his fingers. “It still smells like him. Just like his hoodies, too. And he has so many of them. I miss him so fucking much, I-I can’t—Why doesn’t he just come _back_? Who said he could leave me to fight by myself?”

And the answer was one that required too much thought. Too much effort.

It was raining the day of Dan’s funeral. How ironic. How cliché. How bleak. But the rain was gorgeous because everything was still in the world, and that was the only thing that wasn't. Phil was grateful for it, remarkably. And there were a lot of things he _wasn’t_ grateful for on the day of Dan Howell’s funeral.

There were so many people there. Dressed in black and cautiously sorrowful expressions. Phil sat on the front pew of the church with Bernie and Elise and Chris and Cat. Tanner and Abi were cramped together behind them, eyes downcast on their bunched fingers. It was the first time Phil had seen them since the death and he didn't have enough energy to see them twice. 

Before the service, Bernie quickly mentioned to Phil that he’d written a eulogy. And Phil didn’t even _think_ about what that meant until Bernie was standing to “say a few words” through the stilted church and—

“No, wait,” Phil stood up, and Bernie turned. “I don’t want you to, you don’t have the right to.”

Chris reached and tugged on Phil's black sleeve. “Phil, don’t,” he whispered, gentle. “Just let him, he—he was Dan’s father.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Phil snapped, and shrugged Chris’ grip from him. “You didn’t know anything about him and neither did he. Nobody here did. You’re all liars, you’re all—You should be ashamed of yourselves, the lot of you.”

Bernie scratched the back of his neck and clenched his teeth. “Phil,” he managed, through the growing humiliation. “Please, not here.”

“Let me speak, Dad,” Phil said. “I have a right to speak for him. You don’t. He’d have wanted me to.”

“Phil—”

“No, this isn’t about _you_. This is about Dan. If I knew this is what he wanted, don’t you think I would’ve just sat there and kept my mouth shut?”

“Bernie, just let him,” Elise murmured, dabbing her eyes with the tissue from up her sleeve.

Bernie stood still for a moment, before shaking his head and moving to sit down. Phil dragged himself over to the front of the church and took a breath. There was so many people, so many Dan didn’t know or care about. It scared Phil, just a little. Both the number of them and their misplacement. They didn’t have the right to be here. They didn’t have the right to cry for him.

“I haven’t prepared a speech, obviously,” Phil began. “I’m going to just say a couple things I think he’d have wanted me to, if he ever even actually thought about his funeral. I doubt he would have done.”

Phil inhaled and his eyes scampered across the strangers. “Dan was everything it was obvious he wasn’t. He was kind, he was considerate, he was smart. People always say good shit at funerals so I’ll change it up and be honest. He hurt a lot of people. Kids at school, mostly. He got into a bunch of fights and said stuff he didn't mean. He never handed his homework in on time and never listened in class. But he was so, so clever. Having a single conversation with that boy about what it meant to exist taught me more than education ever could. Taught me more than my parents or my experiences with people. Dan knew things he wasn't supposed to know. He understood things it was impossible for boys like him to understand. He didn’t meant to hurt anyone, and I’m not just saying that because this is bloody _funeral_ —I’m saying it because it’s the truth. The majority of people in this room never saw Dan Howell cry. He wasn’t a boy who cried, right? He wasn't _weak_ like that. He wasn’t broken.

But he was. The _reason_ Dan was so clever was because he’d seen things and suffered things that showed him a darkness so many of us never see. I met him at an orphanage in 1998. It was in London, and we—” Phil looked around the church. His heart was clenching under his skin and everybody was listening to him, eyes drawn with a new-found . . . respect. He opened his mouth and closed it again, and _don’t ever be afraid to feel what you feel_. “Fuck it, we fell in love there. In London. In that orphanage. We were ten and eleven and we were scared because we’d never felt anything like it. It was so powerful, what we felt for each other. So powerful and so much all at once. It was actually quite tragic, what we had. There was this guy that always picked on Dan there because he was . . . because he felt what he felt. And it’s such shit, don’t you think? That somebody can be kicked and beaten and ridiculed just because they feel something that a bunch of others don’t understand. That they don’t themselves. Dan was terrified of himself when I met him. He was this little outcast that didn’t know what it meant to have friends, that didn’t know what it felt like to be loved.

And I needed friends when I got to the orphanage, so we clung to each other. We were already in love before we’d realised what was happening. And then we were adopted together—by Bernie and Elise—and I’m so glad we were, despite how awkward it made everything, because Dan is the best thing that ever happened to me. He really, really is. We changed so much when we became teenagers and there was a long period of time where we didn’t talk at all. But things changed again and for months before he died, we were back to the kids we used to be. Nobody ever noticed that I loved Dan. Just like nobody ever noticed that he loved me. And I don’t think it even really matters anymore because he’s never coming back but—But I wanted you all to know. I think it would’ve made him proud that I’d found the courage to admit to this, to feeling what I did and always will for him. He said he was happy the last time we spoke,” Phil crossed his fingers. “Thank you, Dan. You were always saying thank you to mean but it’s my turn now. Thank you so much, for everything we did and everything we had. You said it wasn’t my fault, but I won’t be able to get through this if I don’t say sorry. I couldn’t save you this time, and I’ll never forgive myself for that. Thank you for showing me the greatest stories the world has to tell, through novels and music and even your own words.”

Phil wasn’t focused on anything but the darkness of his closed eyelids and his crossed fingers. He counted to three, stabling his mind and heart, and said, “I have to say goodbye now. I know it hurts so much, but it always does with you and I. I’ll never forget you. Ever. I’m sorry you have to go it alone for a while, but I know somewhere we’re together for infinity. I hope you’ve found some sort-of peace and I hope you’re not hurting anymore. I’ll keep loving you, I promise. Pinky promise—” he forced himself through his crying. “It’s been great, love. So, so great. Just hold on for me, and I’ll see you soon. I love you forever. Sweet dreams, little one.”

It didn’t matter what happened next. It really didn’t. Somewhere along the way, Phil sat in an empty church and cried by himself. And Tanner came and sat behind, and their conversation went a little something like:

“I never knew you were . . . _that_. I never knew he was either.”

“Well, I am,” Phil said. “And he was. I’m not sorry he was too scared to say it. That was your fault. You and all your fucking friends.”

Tanner didn’t seem to stumble at the hit. He drummed his fingers against his knees and took a breath. “Abi was trying to be angry at you earlier, I don’t know if you noticed,” he replied. “But I don’t think she could keep it up. The way you explained it—you and Dan and your feelings for each other—was enough to change that.”

Phil laughed, once and hard, through his watery eyes. “Thanks. Can’t say I care what anybody thinks anyway. Thought I made that pretty clear.”

“You did, you definitely did,” Tanner paused. “Did Dan—Was it my fault? Did I hurt him?”

Phil sniffed. “Everybody did, Tanner. He was such a mess, bless his beautiful fucking heart. He was broken and sensitive and vulnerable. He never knew how to say things without that extra push from somebody else. I always gave him it, so he held onto me. He needed me there, just like I did him. We were our own catastrophe, Tanner. He held on this long for my benefit and even that makes me feel guilty. Grief is the worst thing I’ve ever had to get through, but it’s starting to feel like acceptance now. There’s a difference, I think.”

“You—” Tanner shifted in the pew. “He loved you. I guess I sort-of knew that when we were kids. The way you looked at each other and watched over one another. You weren’t the typical siblings or even best friends, when I think about it. But I just thought he grew to hate you, like you did him. We were a divided group and it sucked. I’m sorry it’s taken the death of the boy you loved for a lot of us to realise who he was.”

Phil took the final statement, and locked it up in the loose hinges of his heart. He managed a smile in the church and Tanner reached his hand out.

“We can—We can try for him, yeah?”

Phil nodded and shook Tanner’s hand. “Thank you. For doing this for him. He’d want this, too.”

“I wish I could have done it for him when he alive. I’m sorry I didn’t,” Tanner exhaled. “Actually, I’ll just say this on behalf of a lot people who won’t be able to find the words to: I’m sorry you both had to hide. A lot of us around here aren’t accustomed to, you know, gay romances but it’s strange because I don’t feel any animosity towards you. Your speech was excellent, Phil. You went right back to the days you met and explained it in a way that made a guy like _me_ feel guilty. If I could go back and talk him through this, talk about what he felt for you, I would.”

Phil shook his head. He was still crying. “It doesn’t matter, Tanner. Thank you, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll wait forever, but Dan’s not coming back. I’m not even sure he heard me say all that. I’m not even sure we’re ever gonna see each other again. But I’ll never stop loving him. He’s gonna be sleeping for a long time, I just wish it was with me.”

It continued to not matter what happened next. But when Phil was eighteen, he moved to London. He painted a couple pictures and made them sell. He attended a primary school every Thursday and Friday to read a class of eight-year-olds their collection of children’s stories. Most of them were his favourite. On the odd occasion, Chris and Cat came to visit. And Tanner came with them. Sometimes Abi, too. Sometimes Bernie and Elise.

Phil’s flat was small, cramped. He decorated the walls with his sketches and tried to make a home out of the universe without Dan. 

Through his time, he learned that, as humanity, we are not heroes. We were never supposed to be heroes. But he also learned that you didn’t need to be a hero to save somebody. And, equally, that a person didn’t have to live to be saved.

It didn’t matter that Phil never went back to Scotland. It didn’t matter that he continued on because he was excellent and he was proud. He missed Dan, always. And he loved Dan, always.

And his heart remained situated in _you were, you were, you were_ , like it was something to cling to. It was. But, in time, it became _I am, I am, I am._ Because, yes, Dan had been. But Phil still was.

And he’d been taught by his friend—his lover and his soulmate—that we were just matter, just people existing between other fleeting existences. That we would never truly be able to change the world. We were what we were and maybe Dan forgot to send the spaceship back or some shit, but Phil never saw him again. He knew that was okay, because they were okay.

Somewhere a bluebird was singing all the songs yesterday forgot, all the songs tomorrow would bring.

Somewhere they were together.

Somewhere they were apart.

And somewhere they were meeting.

Because in the story of Dan Howell and Phil Lester, there only was but a single anchor.

_“Hello.”_

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a lot of mistakes in this because I am so, so tired. But, damn, this was worth it. Yes, I did cry. Yes, I still am.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read this story. It means the world that you actually shared this with me. I never expected it to mean as much as it does, but I doubt I could ever write something of such important to myself ever again.
> 
> To those who believed in my writing, thank you. And to those who made it here, thank you. And, finally, to those who followed this story of a love. I hope both the characters and I have taught you something about what it means to live. To live and to love and to die.
> 
> It’s all a mess, but it’s your mess.
> 
> So long, friends <3


	23. Afterword

**BLUEBIRD: AFTERWORD**

_“Let us remember all the moments that were and were not, like the point is something we can get and what we can get is what we got.”_

**THE BOOK REFERENCES**

**THE GIVING TREE** is, when in reference to this story, more about the links between morals than about the links between characters. Despite this, there are certain attributes of both the **TREE** and the **BOY** that are shown in Dan and Phil. The **TREE** is selfless. She is content with the fact that she can ‘give’ and it doesn’t seem to matter what she loses of herself. She loves the boy from childhood through to adulthood and this—amongst the many other things—is what she ultimately gives the **BOY**. In this sense, she is a lot like Phil. The **BOY** , on the other hand, completes the same action (taking) and achieves different outcomes (someone to talk to, something real, somewhere to rest) but can never seem to be content with them. Or, rather, with himself. In this sense, he is a lot like Dan.

_“And everyday the boy would come and he would gather her leaves and make them into crowns and play king of the forest.”_

Essentially, what is being said here is that the **BOY** begins by collecting what the tree no longer needs. Yes, he is immediately ‘taking’ but only what falls from her and will grow back. At the beginning of this story, Dan and Phil have an obvious distance between them that is driven by the fact they are strangers and know nothing about one another. They are shy but nevertheless interested and they collect what they can of each other without coming into too much unnecessary, direct contact. In Phil’s case, he sees and feels the mystery surrounding Dan but knows not to push him too far.

Dan asks him on multiple occasions to “figure him out” and Phil spends their time together as children trying, picking up pieces of him that he lets out because they signify he is ready for Phil to see them. The idea of him wearing “crowns” made of the “leaves” emphasises how he’s showing Dan he can make something of his pain, but he only thinks this because he sees the pain in these little fragments. In Dan’s case, he clings onto the pieces he can of Phil and tries to make them a part of himself. Phil makes him feel more confident, hence the idea of playing “king” whilst wearing a crown made of his favourite parts of his new friend.

_“But time went by and the boy grew older and the tree was often alone. Then one day, the boy came to the tree and the tree said, “Come, boy, come and climb up my trunk and swing my branches and eat my apples and play in my shade and be happy.”_

_“I am too big to climb and play,” said the boy._

_“I am too busy to climb trees,” said the boy._

_“I am too old and too sad to play,” said the boy._

As time passes in **THE GIVING TREE** , the **TREE** is alone for long periods of time and the **BOY** returns when he wants to ask something of her. I have highlighted these lines above because I feel they’re really important to the story. Phil is there to watch over Dan as he grows and he suffers when they’re not together because he misses him. Whenever the **BOY** comes to ask for something, the **TREE** always offers what she thinks is ‘good enough’ as it was ‘good enough’ once. As Dan matures, so does his pain and Phil being beside him is no longer enough to soothe the suffering as it is growing more intense. The **TREE** always sees the **BOY** she fell in love with in the broken man, and Phil always sees the boy he fell in love with in his broken man.

Both the **TREE** and Phil are at fault here as they seem to continually have to be reminded that what once was is no longer. In the end, the **BOY** is old and sad and nothing the **TREE** has ever given him has been able to change that. Phil gave Dan everything he could, but it didn’t change the depth of sadness in him. In both stories, there is the idea that the one character is happy simply in the company of the other whilst the other can never be, but they are as ‘happy’ as possible when together.

 **BRIDGE TO TERABITHIA** is one of the most important allusions in the story. The book itself combines connection, imagination, originality and art into one of the best pieces of literature I have ever read. Despite its status as a children’s book, it very much contradicts the typical themes of children’s writings through its looming sadness and forced-maturity.

 **JESSE** and **LESLIE** develop a bond that reminds the reader of the importance of friendship. Their connection allows them to escape the misfortunes of their lives and find themselves through each other. But despite how friendship and childhood are at the centre of the novel, there’s also this juxtaposing darkness that comes from an unforeseen tragedy, amongst many other small tragedies. “Terabithia” is the place in which they go to ‘escape’, the place in which they can be children and have everything a child is supposed to right between the hardships of reality.

There are a lot of obvious links between **JESSE** and **LESLIE** and Dan and Phil. They meet, they become best friends, they develop a connection nobody else understands, one tragically dies. I’d say one of the main intentions I had with continually referencing **BRIDGE TO TERABITHIA** was that I wanted to evoke the feeling of dread that came from reading the book. I wanted you to remember the fact that **LESLIE** dies and **JESSE** loses her, so you would read this story with the constant memory of somebody loses their best friend. It’s second-hand foreshadowing, in a sense.

Phil is very much like **JESSE**. Both of the characters share a passion for art and begin very fearful and fragile because of the circumstances they are under. But **JESSE** meets **LESLIE** and clings to her because of the way she makes him feel, and Phil meets Dan and clings to him for the same reason.

Dan is very much like **LESLIE** , both for his personality and his fate. Both characters are intriguing, with their imaginations and their maturity. They believe and understand things it seems too complex for a child to understand. Both characters also die alone. When discussing this story with Phil at the orphanage, Dan makes the comment:

_“We live alone and we die alone. Sometimes we meet people who make us think otherwise.”_

This, again, is subtle foreshadowing. You most probably didn’t think, “Oh, Dan’s going to die,” after hearing that. Because they were having a conversation about a book and he was describing **LESLIE**. But the correlations already developing between the stories allows you—maybe when reading Bluebird a second time over—to pick up on this comment and think, “This applies to him, too.” 

To summarise this, **BRIDGE TO TERABITHIA** is used to make you predict the ending before you even get there. And it’s interesting because one of my favourite quotes from the story is:

_“You never know ahead of time what something’s really going to be like.”_

This is true. Even despite the ‘major character death’ tag, you didn’t know how Dan was going to die. You didn’t even know it was going to be him. But you were reminded of the sadness and tragedies presented in **BRIDGE TO TERABITHIA** and you associated them with this story because there were so many links. Still, this doesn’t make Dan’s death any less sad, dark or easier to handle.

Another reason I referenced this book so heavily in the fic was the morals and symbolisms. **JESSE** struggles with finding who he is. With his family, he is suffocated by expectations and told who he is supposed to be. But **LESLIE** comes along and shows him—with her already remarkable understanding of the world—a different side to things. When she dies, he has learnt enough to continue on with strength.

In his letters, Dan tells Phil that he shouldn’t be what he’s told be. He recognises his talent with art and drawing and tells him:

_“Just be somebody. You aren’t here to do anything else.”_

And Phil follows the advice because of what Dan has taught him. This story seems very focused on the way Phil saves Dan, but the references to **BRIDGE TO TERABITHIA** reminds us it can also be seen the other way.

**IMPORTANT/RELEVANT QUOTES:**

_“We need a place just for us. It would be so secret that we would never tell anyone in the whole world about it.”_

_“Someday, when he was good enough, he would ask her to write them in a book and let him do all the pictures.”_

_“Jess drew the way some people drank whiskey.”_

_“Lord, it would be better to be born without an arm than to go through life with no guts.”_

_“Jess tried going to Terabithia alone, but it was no good. It needed Leslie to make the magic.”_

**WINNIE THE POOH** is another big allusion in the story. It is stated that they are Dan’s favourite stories and they helped him to escape a lot of darkness in his childhood.

Through many of the characters, the importance of friendship is portrayed. This story is my favourite referenced because it shares the idea of growing up, but a child eternally staying inside you.

_“But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on top of the forest, a little boy and his bear will always be playing.”_

This quote links with Dan and Phil’s continual reference to other ‘universes’ and some of the final lines of the story. Despite Dan’s death, Phil manages to find peace in the fact that there is a universe in which they’re together. The author of **WINNIE THE POOH** wanted to comfort both children and adults with this passage, reminding them that there is always the person you used to be within you. 

Bluebird shows a continual juxtaposition of childhood and adulthood. This is not a children’s book in the slightest, but it combines so much of that naivety and harmlessness only found in childhood. The whole point of that is that you have experienced it yourself as a child and you therefore understand it as an adult. With **WINNIE THE POOH** , this same concept applies. Every child has to grow up and, for a parent who may read the stories to their child, this is a poignant moral. It has two audiences for this reason. It also makes it all the more heartbreaking that Dan had to teach himself to read so he could then read them alone because it’s often something you share with a parent. 

**IMPORTANT/RELEVANT QUOTES:**

_“Goodbye? Oh, no. Can’t we go back to page one and do it all over again?”_

_“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”_

_“The most important thing is, even if we are apart, I’ll always be with you.”_

_“Some people care too much, I think it’s called love.”_

_“You can’t stay in your corner of the forest waiting for others to come to you. You have to go to them sometimes.”_

_“I used to believe in forever, but forever’s too good to be true.”_

_“When you are a bear of very little brain and you think of things, you find sometimes that a thing which seemed very ‘thingish’ inside you is quite different when it gets out into the open and has other people looking at it.”_

_“Even though he had a very small heart, it could hold a rather large amount of gratitude.”_

_“Think, think, think.”_

**CHARLOTTE’S WEB** is the story of a remarkably intelligent spider and a friend she makes in a frightened, vulnerable pig. What’s most important with this in reference to Bluebird is the links between the characters.

 **CHARLOTTE** spends a lot of her time in the story weaving words on webs that, ultimately, save her friend’s life. She is very much like Dan. Both characters share a passion for words and art and are so excellent at expressing themselves through this that they change the course of another’s life. **CHARLOTTE** is very clever and dies young, but not after reaching what she believes is her purpose.

Her friend in the story is a pig named **WILBUR**. He is excitable, but becomes plagued with the worry of his possible death. He represents **PHIL** because of the way he begins with an innocence shattered only by an intense fear. This fear is eventually pushed away by a close friend, whom is lost but never forgotten for their wisdom lives on in memory.

**IMPORTANT/RELEVANT QUOTES:**

_“You have been my friend. That in itself is a tremendous thing.”_

_“How can something be less than nothing? If there were something that was less than nothing, then nothing would be nothing, it would be something—even though it’s just a very little bit of something. But if nothing is nothing, then nothing has nothing that is less than it is.”_

_“With the right words, you can change the world.”_

_“It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer.”_

_“He wanted love. He wanted a friend—someone who would play with him.”_

_“After all, what’s a life anyway? We’re born, we live a little, we die.”_

_“Children almost always hang onto things tighter than their parents think they will.”_

**THE MUSIC REFERENCES**

**PINK FLOYD** are probably the most important music reference in the story. **THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON** is the first album Dan hears and falls in love with, when he listens to the records in Bernie’s garage. A lot of that scene describes Phil admiring his reaction and immediate connection to the music.

 **THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON** is an album that follows the course of life and madness. Dan is young when he first hears it, but he’s immediately drawn to both the music and the lyrics. Some of the most relevant to the story are:

_“Don’t be afraid to care.”_

This comes in **BREATHE** and is one of the tracks highlighted as Dan ‘reacting’ to. It’s a song that details the things humans are supposed to do in their lives. Dan is moved by the lyrics because he has never heard anybody refer to the things he’s frightened of as things you are supposed to feel. It’s equally touching and comforting to him.

_“And all you touch and all you see is all your life will ever be.”_

Again appearing in **BREATHE** , this is another lyric chosen to be mentioned in the scene. Time is played on a lot both on the record and in the story. It’s important because it relates to the ‘universes’ Dan and Phil speak so often about. In those universes, what is present is present. It doesn’t matter what was in the past or will come in the future because every moment is paused. What is happening in whatever your present moment is is all that matters.

_“And I am not frightened of dying, any time will do.”_

This line comes on **THE GREAT GIG IN THE SKY**. It’s a song about the pointlessness of fearing death. Dan gets to a point at the end of the story where he sees death as his way to sleep in a long-overdue peace. He’s sick and he’s tired. I think this line’s very relevant because it comes on a song exactly halfway into the album. It isn’t the end yet, but the realisation has come that it will be okay when it does. Dan realises that he wants to die in the process of writing his letters. This lyric links with the quote:

_“I’ve decided this might be one of the last days of my life. It’s comforting, that.”_

As an entire record, **THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON** is important for the story of Bluebird because it outlines a perspective on the meaning of life. I also tried to do that with this story and I think—amongst other vague influences—that’s where the real connection is.

 

As well as **THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON** , there is a vague but equally significant reference to another album, **THE WALL**. I doubt anybody would’ve picked up on this when reading because the figurative meaning is somewhat open to interpretation for you as a reader, but I’ll highlight the passage in which the reference comes:

_“They passed a brick wall coloured with art, different shades and tints and hues. They slipped over one another to make strange patterns, but the red was running and Phil found the word ‘queer’ amongst the surges of colour.”_

When writing, I had a set intention with this passage. I want to explain it to you because it’s very subtle and unlikely you would’ve so much as noticed it. **THE WALL** is an album that follows a character who builds a metaphorical wall of isolation around himself. The people and situations that hurt him through his life (in this case, childhood) are bricks that contribute to his wall. It also represents society. Children are taught to be the same, with their creativity and individuality compressed by expectation. They are bricks in the wall. The character on the album describes how he was ridiculed when he tried to be unique and escape said title.

These ideas come in the song **ANOTHER BRICK IN THE WALL**. The extract above from the story appears in a scene where Dan and Phil are walking home after a day of school. Dan’s been scolded for not paying attention and humiliated by the class, particularly the boy behind him. Phil is concerned for him because he is sad and glum and—as they pass the wall—he describes the way he contrasts with the city, which represents society:

_“There was definite beauty in his structure, something that never seemed to fade. The softness of his skin contradicted the red on the wall, the litter caught in the light breeze, the distant fumes of thick city smoke.”_

The ‘red on the wall’ is a direct (yet somewhat subtle) reference to the red writing on the album cover of **THE WALL**. The reason this is relevant is because of the earlier events, with Dan’s negativity arising from his bad day at school. **ANOTHER BRICK IN THE WALL** and **THE WALL** itself is an album that uses the experiences of a character to attack the functions of society. Dan stands to contradict the red on the wall—much like the character on the album—because he is isn’t the same as everybody else. He’s beautiful amongst the grime and filth of litter, city smoke and all the ideas presented on the record that build the wall. Like the teacher that scolds him, the children that ridicule him etc.

Phil realises this and thinks:

_“How could a boy so lovely live in such an ugly world?”_

This is one of my favourite lines and passages in the entire story. Phil is watching as Dan unintentionally conflicts with norms and morals and still he finds him to be the most beautiful part of the scene. The idea of ‘queer’ coming between the red writing is important because it shows how the homophobic attacks Dan suffers are also bricks themselves in his metaphorical wall. He’s hurting—again, like the character on the record—and Phil feels the need to remind him he’s actually kind-of alright, in his state of self-pity.

Also, one of the stand-out lyrics on **THE WALL** is:

_“Don’t be just another brick in the wall.”_

In terms of this story, don’t be another person who treats the world and children like Dan with such cruelty and disrespect. As you can see, even with such a subtle reference there is so much from that record can be applied to these characters with just a bit of thought.

 

 **THE EMINEM SHOW** is an album by **EMINEM** that is referenced by Dan with the song **SING FOR THE MOMENT**. I understand it’s an unexpected and seemingly unnecessary album/track to be amongst other rock, alternative, grunge etc records so I’m going to explain its relevance.

The song combines a hook and instrumental by **AEROSMITH** with lyrics outlining **EMINEM** ’s perspective on the kids devoted to rock and rap music. These kids come from white, suburban families and a lot of the album is **EMINEM** acknowledging how they feel such a connection to artists like him. He describes how he finds purpose amongst the backlash from the media and parents of the children in the children themselves. Kids going through hard times turn to rock and rap music, hence the lyric:

_“He’s mad so he’s talking back, talking black, brain-washed from rock and rap.”_

This is **EMINEM** describing how a child from a broken home will be criticised by his parents for listening to him because they feel his messages are negative, with the ‘overuse’ of mature language and themes. He analyses the conflicting views mostly on the second verse, with:

_“That’s why these prosecutors wanna convict me, strictly just to get me off of these streets quickly but all their kids be listening to me religiously.”_

And throughout the rest of the album, like on another track **WHITE AMERICA** :

_“They were instantly hooked right in and they connected with me too, because I look like them.”_

Finally, on the third verse of **SING FOR THE MOMENT** , he explains with emotion why he does what he does:

_“That’s why we sing for these kids who don’t have a thing.”_

_“Or for anyone who’s ever been through shit in their lives so they sit and they cry at night, wishing they’d die.”_

This is an important music reference in the story because **EMINEM** is talking about kids like Dan. He understands that the parents are often the problem with struggling teenagers (I chose to include this particular issue because I feel understand it as a teenager myself) and yet the blame is placed on artists, who are actually their own forms of salvation. Not only does Phil make the connection between Dan and these lyrics, but there’s also a scene in which Dan shows his own understanding of how people react to pain in teenagers. He actually says:

_“There’s something seriously wrong with me and I can’t say anything because I’m a teenager.”_

Of course, it’s obvious that there is something seriously wrong with Dan’s mental health. It’s also described how Bernie and Elise are oblivious to these issues and this is why Dan is so connected to songs like **SING FOR THE MOMENT** , yet he mentions how Tanner doesn’t like them as much.

This song and this album are important for Dan’s character, more than just the story itself. Rather than being extensions of his feelings, they’re an analysis on people like him. When he plays Phil the song, he explains how he thinks a lot about what **EMINEM** is talking about. Phil then asks him if he’s ‘ever going to let him in there’, referencing his mind.

Dan proceeds to say:

_“We are what we think about.”_

In such context and after the explanation, you probably understand this in more detail. Dan thinks often about **SING FOR THE MOMENT** , a song about kids who are struggling and turn to music for a release and an escape. He is one of these kids.

 

 **NEVERMIND** is an album by **NIRVANA** , referenced again in the story when Dan is playing some of his favourite songs for Phil. He shows him the track **LITHIUM** , which is the fifth song on the record. Lithium as a medication is used to treat major depressive disorder and as a metaphor in the song for religion, since it’s supposed to ‘cure’ or ‘save’ all souls.

The opening lyric is:

_“I’m so happy ’cause today I found my friends, they’re in my head.”_

Like a lot of the songs referenced in the story, Dan is connected to them. This lyric outlines his loneliness, beginning in his childhood when his only company and escape was book characters. However, he still holds onto solitude even after he’s grown up. He seems to intentionally draw himself away from situations. For example, when he has a lot of time off school and stays in his bed. It’s as though he doesn’t need anything but Phil, music and words. In fact, I think Dan’s character can probably be summed up with those three things.

The lyrics of **LITHIUM** are the epitome of depression, with each line reverting between positive/negative or happy/sad. The first line centres around happiness, where as the next proceeds to describe ugliness. But then it goes to say that being ugly is okay. Playing on the idea of religion, **LITHIUM** refers to ‘finding God’ and ‘lighting candles’ in the process. Dan’s faith is complex and muddled and at one point his troubled life turns him against it, whereas the next it brings him closer to it when he wants to say a prayer in the chapel. This links with the song as it represents the constant conflicting/changing opinions. Each subject contributes to the themes of mania and depression in a mental breakdown.

Also on **NEVERMIND** , there are many underlying themes of youth and revolution and ideas Dan believes in. It’s the typical album he would listen to.

**THE FINAL NOTE**

This concluding part has been a long time coming and I will probably continue to add to it, but I just wanted to get it up here for you to read through and maybe feel even closer to the story. Thank you to everyone who has read this so far and thank you to those who have left love and commented such amazing things. I am so grateful for all of it, for every single one.

Bluebird has allowed me to find things in myself that I never realised were there, that I now believe are in everyone. I can only continue to hope you find half the amount of peace I did when writing this and more of you will come and leave your opinion because there’s honestly nothing I treasure more than knowing some part of this story has touched you. I will continue to yearn for and appreciate all your little messes of thought and emotion because I’m learning it’s impossible for me to let this go.

**WRITTEN BY LVCKYPHAN**


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